


the sacredness of shared meals

by cobbvanth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Introspection, Maybe a few bad jokes, Mild Descriptions of Burns and Injuries, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Sarlacc, Slow Burn, Tags will be updated at the story progresses, Tattooed!Boba, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobbvanth/pseuds/cobbvanth
Summary: after finding a strange man seriously injured just outside the perimeters of your moisture farm, you and your only other companion - a droid named Patch - do your best to keep him alive.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett & You, Boba Fett x Reader, Boba Fett x You
Comments: 69
Kudos: 388





	1. Chapter 1

You find him face down in the sand not far from your farm. 

Almost immediately outside its periphery actually, about four or five yards from the outermost vaporator. The tallest and most valuable out of the three that you own, and unfortunately the one most prone to breaking. The previous night’s dust storm has given you plenty of reason to go check on it now - the small holopad like device you use to monitor the functionality of each collector strobing in warning, a bright orange exclamation point flashing across the screen. Painfully annoying to deal with most of the time, and hopefully nothing more than sand, but you won’t know until you look, and as you walk across your property with your patch-in droid, you’ve got your fingers crossed that whatever damage it’s suffered isn’t anything that requires more than having to brush away a few rocks. 

Stepping out of your house, you sink slightly with each step you take afterward. The high morning daylight reflects blindingly against newly formed dunes of sand, residues of last night’s wind blowing unsettled granules into your face, making it difficult to find your balance and to see properly even in layers of protective coarseweave and the scarf you’re wearing covering most of your face. Bringing your hand to your forehead, you do your best to soldier through it, ignoring the gritty salt taste in your mouth and the way your eyes begin to water. Your droid does his best to keep up, too, his wheels whirring as he works hard to maintain his traction, sand flying out from beneath his weight, his discomfort and protest voiced with an occasional beep. 

“You could have stayed home, you know. You didn’t have to come with me.” You turn to your right and squint down at the sky blue robot. His binocular-like head turns in your direction and squints back. 

Another beep, far more annoyed and less dejected than the previous ones. 

“I know it’s your job, honey. It’s just a little bit further. I can’t help that you have wheels. I’m not the one who created you. Trust me, if I was I would have made you a lot nicer.” You grumble the last bit, trying not to trip over your ankles as the sand gets deeper and harder to step through. 

A series of upset chirps, his poor little tank-like feet fighting a losing battle against a terrain that seems as if it’s always trying to kill something - robots and non-robots alike. Taking pity on him, you sigh and stop walking, feeling guilty, bending down to his height to brush debris off his head and the piece of metal that protects his wheels. 

“You’re right. I’m just stressed about the vaporator. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m sorry.” 

A shy tril signals your forgiveness. You stand to your full height and start walking again, this time with more purpose, the vaporator in question appearing on the horizon. “Alright, twenty credits says that it’s the condensers this time.” 

It didn’t take as long as you liked to admit for this to stop feeling weird, having conversations with a companion that isn’t even human. When you had inherited your farm, you had been used to living on your own and your uncle had long since passed. An awful man that hadn’t even been living on Tatooine for the last few years of his life, having escaped this bantha-fodder hell hole for a planet much more nice and shiny, not that you were particularly close with him anyway, so it had come as a surprise to find out that you were included in anything that had to do with him at all, let alone something a serious and invariable as his will. But as it turned out, it wasn’t much of a gracious offering. The property and everything on it was maintained by a hired hand who travelled the distance between your farm and Mos Eisley for a sum he was paid monthly, a portion of the earnings the farm’s previous owner won in high stakes bets placed on fathier races. With no measure or incentive to make sure things were actually being properly taken care of, the newly rich attendant let almost everything fall to ruin, and your droid, the frustratingly perceptive and surprisingly snarky assistant trailing behind you with all his might, was nothing more than a cowering piece of metal forgotten in the corner. 

He had needed a friend just as much as you did. 

“Woah, high roller. Where’re you getting that kind of money? And besides, we don’t mention the people that shall not be named, remember? Jeez, it’s like you’re trying to summon them.” 

You glance down at the holopad still blinking, tapping twice to zoom in on the equipment in question now that you’re closer to it, trying to get a better look. The droid’s response is a beep you’re not quite paying attention to, your focus now on figuring out what has gone wrong and how to fix it. “As much as I want to boost your self esteem, you and I both know you can’t fight them. How would you even do that? You’re basically a neck attached to a moving platform, all they’d have to do is knock you over.” 

A second noise, far more concerned than the last. 

“Not saying I’d fair any better, Patch, but ya know…I have arms.” 

Upon rotating the 3D model of the spire, you grin wickedly as you zoom in a second time on the refrigerated condensers highlighted in red, any irritation at this unfortunate find temporarily annulled by your sweet, sweet victory over your poor, helpless robot. “Ha! Told you. See? Right there. Second condenser. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but this is the fourth time I’ve been right which I think qualifies this as a winning streak, so if you want to cheer for me, I would not be opposed.” 

You set the device down on the base of the harvester and move on to grab a few tools from the satchel situated around your waist, noticing for the first time that he’s uncharacteristically silent. 

You turn to face him, worried. “What’s the matter?” 

Staring off at something in the distance, you follow his line of sight. “Oh.” 

He chirps again, quiet and on-guard, and this time you realize he’s been trying to get your attention. A tiny sparkle had caught his photoreceptor, a small glint of refracted sunslight angling out from beneath bleached, atomized earth. 

“Stay here.” 

Armed with only a screwdriver, you aren’t really sure what you’re doing as you slowly and carefully approach the slight deviation in the otherwise smooth surface of the dunes. Your palm sweats around the handle of it the closer you get, nervous but too committed now to turn back. You can’t tell what it is, just that pieces of it are catching, dark green fabric and a broken antenna of some sort sticking out of the sand. You wouldn’t call yourself brave, not really, not at all actually because you’re a hermit moisture farmer who lives off soup and portion bread and spends most of her days talking to a sentient droid that may or may not - some of the time - be plotting her murder, so it isn’t like you to be doing something like this - to be taking such a risk. Each step makes your common sense scream, your experience with things like this able to be counted on one hand (more like a fist) and you nearly turn around more than once, the practical part of you counteracted by your maybe, probably, crazed mumblings that _Okay, you can do this. It’s fine. Gotta protect Patch and defend my land like a good farmer lest I risk being haunted by my nerf-herder uncle. Who needs a spear when you’ve got a screwdriver, right? I’ll be fine. This is totally fine. Totally don’t have to pee right now either. Maker, what the hell am I doing?_

It isn’t until you’re close enough to reach out and touch them that you realize what had been half-way buried in the storm last night happened to be a person and not, for instance, something much easier and less traumatizing to deal with. 

Immediately you begin to dig, with an agenda at first, but soon your movements devolve into something akin to panicked as whatever progress you make is undone by the wind and gravity. The man, you figure this out next, is big - heavy and unconscious and obviously injured, which doesn’t make any of this easy - it certainly doesn’t ease the burden of the fact that you could be mistaken and you might be trying to uncover a dead body, or the increasing possibility that if he isn’t you have the ethical duty to not just leave him in the middle of the desert and that you now somehow have to get him back to your house. 

But in the typical let me just ignore this until I can’t sort of fashion, you pointedly tuck all that away for later and manage, pushing up on his shoulder and using his own weight to flip him over onto his back.

Exhaling and embarrassingly out of breath, you sit down and you close your eyes before you can get a good look at his face, relieved - at least for the moment - that if this man is going to go, at least it isn’t ass in the air, suffocating in sand. 

“If you end up being weird I’m gonna be so mad.” You grumble as you stand, brushing fruitlessly at your pants, ready to grab ahold of his cape and drag him by the shoulders back to your house. 

When you open your eyes again, you get your first real look at him. 

Hurt would be an understatement. Injured isn’t any better. 

His skin and his clothes and his hair are stained with a tacky, dark brown and tar-black mixture of sand and blood and salt. The granules stick particularly well to the lacerations on his face and hands still oozing, getting lighter and more like the sand around you the further away they are from the cut like some awful form of bacta - built up from hours spent wandering, at first managing to stay up right, taking stumbling and exhausted steps forward, then, by the looks of his shirt, crawling on his stomach when his legs had finally collapsed. 

Somewhere along the way he lost his armor. His jetpack and blaster. 

Entirely defenseless, he managed to get as far as this, your measly little farm, before he could force himself to go any further. 

Recovering, you swallow the urge to recoil, forcing the fear and empathy and initial disgust away somewhere that isn’t the forefront of your mind to be picked apart and dissected later too, along with a whole bunch of other things, hyper-aware that right now you need to figure out a way to get him inside and treated before you no longer have that option. 

Grabbing his arms by the elbows, you start your seemingly endless trip back. “Maker, I’m sorry if I make this worse, just please don’t die.” 

-

The hour and a half that follows is surreal, like some strange out of body experience that consisted mostly of you whispering assurances to an unconscious man and to an empty room, but mostly just to yourself, almost as if the affirmations had somehow made it easier to wash his hair and strip him of his clothes, trying to preserve them enough to sew and clean them later, to ignore the way he floated in and out of consciousness, groaning, causing you to look sharply away from his face when it twists full of anguish. Unsure or maybe just unwilling to figure out if he knows what you’re doing, if he knows that he’s safe and that all you want to do is make him better because speaking directly to him makes him - this and its consequences - real. 

You had filled a wooden bowl with water and added oils to it. A recipe learned and passed down to you by watching your mother, staring up at her in the refresher, then following her to the kitchen as she carefully stirred until the water was opaque and dotted with bubbles, the concoction used on sunburns and split knees whenever you fell and your father’s callused hands, a sort of soothing home-remedy that worked miracles on cracked skin and blisters, perhaps nothing more than snake oil now and with only enough bacta to take care of a small portion of his injuries, you were sensible with how you rationed it, hoping that gently cleaning the dirt and blood off his face and neck and hands was enough, and that his immune system would do the rest. 

He calmed by the time you were finished. You watched his chest rise and fall for a few minutes, somewhere between frozen in shock and ensuring he was still breathing, snapping out of it eventually when Patch came rolling slowly into the room, leaving you with nothing more than to work on mending his clothes. 

-

Boba wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognize that is warm and dimly lit.

It is night now, but he cannot tell how much time has passed. Outside, moonlight shimmers softly against the glass of the window high above his head directly across the room, as if the stars hidden away in the daytime had decided to fall and make their new home in the sand. Beautiful. Calming. If he had the energy, he’d be surprised by how safe he feels, how unbothered he is by his vulnerability, but he doesn’t so he moves on - letting recognition of his surroundings skim the surface of his awareness. Around him, everything is bathed in the low orange glow of bloggin-oil lamps, and in his semi-conscious state he’s cognizant that something is cooking, a sort of broth that fills the entire room with the scent of lyseed seasoning and something medicinal. 

Hushed beeping and answering whispers catch his full attention. Boba turns his head. The room develops in his vision like the gradual development of a hologram. 

“He’s not!” A sharp whine in dissent. “No, I am not about to get close enough to find out. What if he ends up being violent or something? Then who’s going to fix your wiring and make sure you don’t get squeaky? It’s not going to be me because I’ll be dead!” 

A table. The leg of a chair. 5 wheels. A boot. His gaze travels upwards. 

You. 

Sitting a few feet away from his bed with a steaming mug of something cradled in your right hand - the same something that must be boiling near the nanowave right now - your knees tucked towards your chest, making wild gestures with your free hand as you speak to the scrawny droid to your left. 

“You go check on him if you’re that worried about it. I did my part.” 

Boba swallows and licks his lips, noticing abruptly how dry his mouth is. He hasn’t had anything to drink since falling into the sarlacc pit almost three days ago, leaving him dangerously dehydrated but unable to speak - helpless to interrupt this annoying conversation to ask for something to drink. He tries anyway, though, his chest heaving with the impulse to cough, the movement aborted with every inhale, his lungs pressing against his ribcage like they had been made from shards of glass until finally - 

“Stop. Talking.” 

Surprised into silence, you set your cup down and lean forward, standing up. “You’re awake.” 

“You’re loud.” 

“Sorry,” you apologize quickly, quieter now, approaching the bed - your bed - tentatively. “How are you feeling? You’ve been asleep a few hours.”

Boba blinks slowly. “Like I was eaten alive.” 

You don’t know what that means, can’t even begin to imagine if he’s being serious or not, but it doesn’t matter because he keeps talking, struggling to sit up as he braces himself on his forearms, pushing himself upright and backwards towards your headboard. 

“Careful. You’re too weak to move yet.” You warn, placing a hand gingerly to his shoulder, the other reaching for a glass similar to yours left on the bedside table without any forethought, without noticing the way he looks at you - briefly, fleetingly - or realizing the weight and implications of the tense eye-contact you make upon touching him. 

“Drink this. I know you must be thirsty.” 

He goes to reach for it, but his hands are too shaky to be of any use, so you have to help him, guiding the cup to his lips and tilting it, careful not to let it pour too fast or too slow. From the looks of it, he’s never been in this position before, has never relied on someone like this, let alone a stranger, and can’t figure out what to do with himself or how to feel about it, his frustration palpable in his attempt to hold the cup anyway. 

When he’s finished you get up to refill it, suddenly glad for the space now separating you. 

“Where am I?” 

“My house.” You answer softly, pouring. 

“No, kid. I mean, where-” 

Interrupting him gently, you do your best to remain patient. “I know what you mean. I wasn’t finished.” 

You set the teapot down quietly, using a spoon to steep the leaves in his drink. 

“I’m assuming you know you’re still on Tatooine, but if not…surprise.” You smile a little and make a little wave with the utensil. “We’re a few standard-hours from Mos Eisley. I found you by one of my moisture vaporators. You’d still be there if Patch hadn’t seen you first.” 

Boba looks fully at the nervous little robot for the first time. “Your droid.” 

“Patch,” you correct. “And yes. We had gone out to repair a condenser damaged in the storm last night. You’re lucky it had stopped before it could bury you completely. We wouldn’t have spotted you at all, then.” 

He watches you fill his mug again, tempted to reach out and touch your wrist - stuck with more questions than answers, filled with an urgency to have them explained before his body collapses into another fitful bout of dream-less sleep. He doesn’t, though, not sure he’d be able to even if he tried, and waits for you to finish. 

“Why?” 

“Why what? Why wouldn’t we have seen you?” A silly thing to say, but you’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s been through a lot. 

“No. Why help me.” 

His question catches you off guard and you avoid looking at him for a few seconds that pass like cold syrup, acutely aware now that you don’t really have an answer to give him - nothing solid enough to pass as an excuse, certainly not anything definitive enough to be an actual answer, either. You truly don’t know why you’re doing anything right now, just that you’re filled with the compulsion to do it. 

“I don’t know…it’s the right thing to do, I guess. Maybe I just hope that if I were in your situation, someone would do the same for me.” 

You don’t look at him, but you think that maybe he’s nodding. 

He must accept this though because he doesn’t say anything, so you take his silence as an opportunity to sit down at the edge of the bed and help him take another sip. He doesn’t meet your gaze or try to hold the cup this time, taking long drinks until he can’t anymore, pushing weakly at your wrist to signal that he’s finished. 

Boba catches his breath, then clears his throat. “What’s your name?” 

You smile slightly as you get up and place the dishes into the sink next to your cooling chamber. Looking over your shoulder at him, you’re relieved to see that some of his color has returned. “I should be asking you that.” 

You give it to him anyway and he repeats it. The unexpected flush it brings about something else to ignore. 

“Should I guess what your name is or…” 

“Boba.” 

The familiarity of his name touches the base of your skull, travels through your jaw and sets your teeth slightly on edge, but doesn’t establish itself as anything concrete, a fleeting, airy feeling of deja vu and nothing else. Slowly, delicately, you force your mind to switch back into focus, away from dissecting this strange feeling and the fear you know creeps beneath it. It wouldn’t make sense to be afraid now, to second guess yourself. You’re doing the right thing by helping him, and he very clearly needs it. To change your mind, to kick him out, wouldn’t be right, especially since you cannot pinpoint why exactly you suddenly want to, or if that doing so could be explained with any valid reason at all. 

You find your seat across the room again, wrapping your arms around your legs, your chin resting on your knee. “Do you remember what happened, Boba?” 

“Only that the sarlacc found me somewhat indigestible.” 

_Sarlacc?_

This man was eaten by a kriffing monstrosity worm animal plant hybrid and lived? 

Boba reads the surprise in your face and grins in amusement. None of this is funny, but the genuine concern and bewilderment you’re staring at him with now is sort of entertaining in a _you have no idea, kid_ kind of way. He remembers only bits and pieces. He remembers Solo accidentally slamming a pole into his jetpack, igniting it and sending him hurtling into the sky above the pit, only for him to fall in. He remembers falling, tumbling downwards in the sand and towards enormous rows of teeth. Things become more complicated after that. His armor had protected him from what surely would have killed him, but he can’t recall how he got out - can only summon fading images of a being dragged, some sort of chatter like an argument was happening above his head as he was picked apart, robbed of his weapons and beskar. Then a gasp, like whomever or whatever it was that that had been salvaging him for parts was surprised to discover that he was human. 

The rest is entirely blank until he was woken by similar bickering. 

“How did you? What were you? I mean-” 

“I can’t remember much after falling in. Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“Maker.” You whisper in wonder, looking at him differently now - the sympathy and disquietude still there just given another layer. A coat of something else like maybe you’re on some level impressed with him or amazed that he had survived and without any of the defensive humor clouding your features, you look young enough for him to wonder what the hell you were thinking bringing a man like him inside your home, achingly pretty and incredibly naïve. 

This planet should have taught you better. 

The ensuing silence is thick - not uncomfortable, almost solid in the room like heavy fog. 

“I should let you get your rest.” You finally say, rising to your feet. He has more things to ask more pressing than his desire to sleep, but he’s fighting a losing battle against the weight of his eyelids. They’ll have to wait for the next time he wakes up, whenever that is. 

His eyes follow you as you move about the room, gently putting out the lamps, casting you in a soft, golden glow. As each one dwindles, you become more and more of a shadow dancing in his vision and if he had the energy, he’d be off-put by how safe he feels, how natural it seems to be near you, the quiet beeps of your droid and the soothing pitch of your voice. 

You’re saying something as you get closer to the bed. The last lamp. But he doesn’t catch it. Only your face, sweet and smiling. 

“Goodnight, Boba.”


	2. Chapter 2

“My ship.” 

It’s early the next morning, the land outside your homestead bathed in a pale blue dawn that is starting to slowly morph into rich shades of orange and pink as the twin suns creep their way higher into the sky. You had stayed up most of the night monitoring him, had passed the time by finishing the mends his clothing had needed and by replacing the items that could not be salvaged with whatever had been left by your uncle. Chests of his belongings had long since been tucked away by you when you first moved in, serving no discernible purpose other than the occasional square chunks cut from the fabric you ‘borrowed’ from some of his shirts to be used as a rag to oil Patch’s wheels. Otherwise, you forget they even exist until the next time you need them. 

Fortunately, he had been stable and you got everything done within the first few hours, but you quickly realized early on that it didn’t necessarily guarantee a peaceful evening. Nightmares hadn’t been something you were anticipating. Prepared for a medical emergency, somewhat, a little bit, but not for the way he battled enemies you couldn’t see. It was painful to watch, to see him suffer and know that only waking him would make it harder for him to find sleep again. You had done your best to give the small comforts you could, feeling strange and unsure in every movement, but also like you couldn’t leave him like this - calling out into a darkened room, fighting against the bedsheets - doing what your mother had done when you were a small child, stroking his forehead, careful not to touch the bandages or accidentally disturb them, murmuring quietly that it would be alright. 

Acts of kindness too tender to happen in the daylight.

It seems he doesn’t remember. 

You turn away from the cooker at the sound of his voice, having begun preparing breakfast under the impression that he was still asleep. “What?” 

“I need to get back to it.” He makes to get up, finds that he can’t. You set down your spoon and walk over to the side of the bed, gently urging him to lay back down.

“I didn’t see any ship.” _I could barely see you_ , you want to add, discovering now that he’s stubborn and isn’t easily dissuaded once he has his mind set on something. Hopefully you can manage to get him to harness all that willpower into staying alive. 

“You wouldn’t have. It’s…” Boba stops, furrows his eyebrows as if slowly realizing he doesn’t remember where it had been or what was done with it. 

You wait for him to continue worriedly, glancing back at your now burning eggs. “Hey, we don’t have to worry about that right now, okay? We can focus on finding your ship once you start to feel better.” 

Not your greatest pep talk, but not ruining your food is a slightly bigger concern than finding this theoretical ship in a desert bigger than you can fathom. You don’t necessarily blame him for having his focus set on getting out of here, this is the last place you wanted to end up, too, however you had anticipated his priorities to be on more immediate, detrimental things like the fact that he probably hasn’t eaten a substantial meal since falling into the sarlacc pit nor has he had much to drink aside from the broth you had given him last night. If your positions were swapped, you’d be starving. 

Boba lays on his back, closes his eyes. You nearly go to touch his face again, like you had done a few hours ago, your hand hovering in the air somewhere between stillness and movement when he speaks. 

“Your eggs are burning.” 

“ _Maker._ ” 

Getting up, you hurry back to the nanowave and take the pan off the cooking burner, grabbing a spatula with the other and using it to poke the sizzling, charred food around, hoping it’ll be at least somewhat salvageable. Some of it might be, but the majority of it isn’t. Your mood dips drastically. 

“I know. _Kriff_ \- eggs are hard to come by, too.” You exhale, setting both items down onto the counter - exhausted and now frustratingly disappointed as well as hungry. 

Boba opens his eyes and watches. Follows the movement of your hand as it goes to your forehead, then scrubs down the side of your face. Guilt tugs at his diaphragm somewhere below his stomach like someone had tied a rock to it and placed it in his belly, muted and ignored, but existing and there nonetheless. It’s enough for now that he can tell himself you made the decision to bring him inside, and that the things that have followed aren’t necessarily his fault. 

Picking away at the darker pieces, you speak again, attempting to keep a neutral tone in your voice. “There’s enough here for you. I can stir you some portion bread if you’d like. I’m not sure what kind of appetite you have right now if you have one at all, but you need to eat something.” 

Setting the pan back down, you go to grab a dish for him and begin to prepare his plate. “How are you feeling?” 

A little better, you hope. He’s gained some of his color back, but you also know that he isn’t entirely out of the woods yet. It’ll take months for him to properly heal, and even then he’ll be dealing with the side effects for the rest of his life. If he manages to get through the next couple of weeks, maybe you can figure out a way to get him in the hands of someone who’s actually trained, someone who can actually help him, perhaps with someone who knows him. 

“Invasive.” 

Pausing, you turn to face him, gently asking. “What?” 

“Those eggs should be for you. Not for me.” 

You almost laugh. His concern softening your mood. “The nobility is appreciated, but I’m not the one two seconds away from dying if I blink too hard. The eggs are for you, Boba. I’ll have something else. It’s okay.” 

Resuming breakfast, you continue. “I’ll need to change your bandages after you finish eating. It isn’t going to feel good, but if I don’t you’ll be more likely to get an infection, and with your skin the way it is that won’t be difficult.” 

Medical supplies aren’t easy to acquire, much harder to get than eggs, but fortunately for you they don’t go that fast. The worst thing you’ve done to yourself in a long time is accidentally nick your fingers trying to fix a piece of equipment, and that only required some light bacta and a band aid, so you’ve got more than enough to work with - not plenty, not even a lot, but all he needs for right now. Eventually, you’ll need to get more, which means venturing into the nearest town. Mos Eisley isn’t your favorite place, harbors a few bad memories you’d like to keep tucked away from your forethought, so up until this point, you’d take the trip once every two weeks or so to Mos Pelgo, trade with the locals there, but now with Boba in your care, you don’t want to risk leaving him for longer than you have to - tacking two or three more hours onto an already long trip wouldn’t be wise and taking him with you isn’t an option.

“You seem…” Boba swallows, forced to speak slowly and with caution. “More knowledgeable about medicine than a simple moisture farmer would be.” 

“Yeah, I guess I would. I wasn’t always here…ya know, farming or whatever. This is - was - my uncle’s farm. I inherited it after he died. What very little I know about healing came from my mother on Alderaan.” You carry his plate over to him and set it down on the table next to your bed. “Do you think you’re strong enough to hold this by yourself?” 

In your left hand is a fork and you gesture with it towards the plate. He looks as if he wants to ask you about it, but simply looks at the utensils instead. The answer is probably no. You ask anyway, just to make him feel slightly less dependent on you, less ‘invasive’ as he put it. He might try, will most likely try, and you’ll let it happen to help him save face even though you already know that you’ll end up feeding him anyway. 

Instead of answering outright, he takes a hold of the fork and focuses on keeping it in his hand. You make notice of the way it shakes, but say nothing. You know he’s more aware of it than you could be. 

The bounty hunter has it about three quarters of the way to the plate and you watch, trying not to hold your breath, when he drops it as suddenly as if it had grown thorns and got hot. The fork tings when it hits the floor, bounces slightly then rattles for half a second, finding its way underneath the nightstand. You stand to get it, sparing him by keeping your focus on the fork and not witnessing the look on his face. “That’s alright. I can get you a new one.” 

There’s the noise of the plate landing as gently as he can get it on the table. “Don’t bother. I’m not hungry.” 

“You need to eat something.” Fork in hand, you stand up. His food is considerably less neat looking, and usually that wouldn’t bother you, but a lot of credits had gotten you those eggs and he needs the protein. Going to the sink, you grab him another. 

“I’m Not. Hungry.” 

“If you don’t, you won’t get better. At least have some bread.” Pouring water into the small container, you mix it together quickly, just trying to get it done fast enough to make him eat it before he protests. The dough rises, splits and then releases some steam. You carry it over to him, sit down again, then place it in his lap, over the blankets. 

“Eat.” 

At least this way he can feed himself, not a lot of finesse involved with ripping off bread and bringing it to his mouth. He might fight you anyway, just to be stubborn, just to be an asshole, but he doesn’t - tentatively pinching a bit of bread between his fingers, then eating it. You close your eyes for a second, smile a little in exhaustion and relief. “Thank you. Maker, you could be on fire and refuse water to put it out.” 

Taking a hold of the dish again, you head over to the table, grab yourself a fork on the way, and sit down. You both eat silently for a couple of minutes. You hadn’t realized how much energy you’ve burned through since last night until having to give up your breakfast, so now you nearly shovel through them, every so often glancing in Boba’s direction to make sure he hasn’t choked. Patch rolls in, chirps in greeting, then almost like he’s surprised the man he had spotted is still alive. 

“There are a few things I still need to do today that’s going to take up a lot of my time after we’re done eating. Do you think you’ll be okay by yourself?” You won’t attempt to change his bandages until later. Small victories and all that. 

Boba swallows, looks at you. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay,” you bring your things back to the kitchen. “I’ll be in periodically to check on you. Try to get some more sleep.” _I know you_ _need it._

Before leaving, you take his dishes and make sure that he’s comfortable, trying to hide your worry from him. He had been so fragile, still is and now in another way, too. It makes you almost want to leave the vaporator for another time, fearful that he’ll have another nightmare and you’re not going to be there to soothe him through it. You doubt that you’d get away with it again, yet the impulse is still there, still makes you feel contrite and responsible and like you’re leaving him to suffer. You’ll just have to work through it, same as he does. Some time spent alone will give you the opportunity to figure out your next move as well, and some quiet to think about why the hell you’re risking your sanity and quite possibly your safety for a man you don’t even know. Why there had been and still is this exigency to do it. 

Like it’s out of your hands. Like you’re acting on behalf of the universe. 

Still so personal, still so frightened for him. 

The day is hot. Over night, much of the sand had settled, making it easier to walk and for Patch to follow. You keep an eye out for anything you might need to notice, a ship for one thing, possibly his other belongings as well, but when you get to the spot you had found him in, there’s nothing there at all aside from the slight indentation he had made in the ground that hasn’t been smoothed away just yet by the morning wind. You stare at it, remembering suddenly about how terrifying it had been finding him like that, attempting to carry him back to your house without hurting him any more than he already had been, desperately praying to anyone that would listen to keep him alive and not dead by the time you reached your front door. 

The air in your nose begins to sting.

You blink a few times and look away sharply. 

Patch rounds your side and stands in front of you, squinting a few times - making his photoreceptors big and small until it finally gets you to laugh. “I’m okay. Thanks, buddy.” 

You pat his head, get over to the vaporator and check its diagnostics on the holopad in your left hand before getting to work on fixing the refrigerating unit. You tell how much time has passed by the position of the suns - how high up they are in the sky, how long of a shadow the things they are hitting is casting - and after close to two hours of working, you’re finally finished and assembling the cooler back on, sweaty and covered in grime, glad to be done. 

“If you’re overheating, go back inside, Patch.” 

The droid beeps, does a few circles around you and the spire in frustrated annoyance. 

“He’s not scary. The man could barely eat his breakfast by himself. I’m sure he isn’t going to do anything to you, even if he wanted to, _and not that he does_.” 

Occupied by a task you’ve done a thousand times over, it was startlingly easy to let your mind wander to the bounty hunter currently in your bed. Most of what you were doing needed little thought, and with nothing more pressing to fill the void, your attention slipped to him. So far you only know three things about him: his name, what had happened to him, and that he possibly has a ship somewhere out here no doubt being pecked apart and scavenged by Jawas. Aside from that, he’s a mystery. You don’t know his last name, how or why he had managed to get near enough to a sarlacc pit to fall in and be eaten by one, where he comes from, what he does for a living, nothing substantial at all. Nothing concrete. Nothing that would make taking him in a better and well-thought out decision. And that should really, really scare you, but it doesn’t. You aren’t afraid of him at all. 

“Quit. You’re distracting me. Get in the shade before you melt.” The sonic screwdriver in your hand waivers slightly, your annoying little robot making you lose focus. “I mean it, Patch. Go inside or get out of the suns before I take your wheels.” 

The droid zips past you, kicking up sand onto your boots, whistling. 

“Dude, are you kidding me right now? I understand this last sleep cycle has been kinda stressful for all of us, but can you please take your anxiety out somewhere else? And like - not fill my socks with sand while you’re doing it?” 

Patch makes a few more noises, stops going in circles, back to protesting. 

“I promise you, right now, that if he doesn’t, I will.” You point the tool at him, and would nearly be finished by now and inside with him if he’d just listen. “I don’t want to hear another word-” 

The distant noise of a motor stops you from finishing your sentence. The both of you freeze and stare at each other, but as the sound gets louder and closer, he wheels as fast as he can to get behind you. 

_Maker, not something else._

The vehicle is initially just a speck of almost nothing wavering in the horizon. You can barely see it, squinting and searching for it, hoping that your farm isn’t its destination. You don’t have visitors aside from the ones that collapse on your property which has happened exactly one (1) time yesterday and occasionally, sometimes, when you go against your better judgement (often, it seems), that Marshall from that sleepy, dusty town you visit comes over for drinks, complains about a krayt dragon, keeps you company, and then maybe if he’s lucky, he gets to kiss you, too. 

But he wouldn’t be hauling the way whoever this is towards your house, wouldn’t have chosen to show up unannounced. Your _thing_ with him, if it can even be called that, is not serious enough to warrant such a rushed, aggressive visit, and happens infrequent enough that sometimes you forget he even exists. It’s easy to make your own world out here. Easy, then, to become paranoid of strangers. 

“Patch, get in the house.” 

He quietly drones. He doesn’t want to leave you. 

“My love, as much as I’d like to argue with you on this one, I’m really going to need you to listen just this once. I’ll take care of it and come get you when I’m done, okay?” 

Patch nudges your hand with his head, you look down at him and smile the best you can. “Go.” 

You look back to the speeder as he turns and goes rushing towards the homestead. You need to think about how to play this. There’s no way to figure out what they want until they’re here and saying it, so you might as well make an attempt at staying cool, going through a few scenarios as you pick up your equipment and start putting things away. They could be here for Boba. Your immediate feeling is that they are since this has never happened before, but you hope that you’re wrong. What that would involve instead, you don’t know. 

The craft stops about fifteen feet from you. Two men you don’t recognize get out. Each armed. 

“Are you her?” The driver. He walks towards you, the second man following. 

You bring your hand to your forehead to shield your vision and to get a better look at them, your other palm sweating around the screwdriver you hold out of sight. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“That’s her.” The other verifies.

“Your uncle used to own this farm, yeah?” 

“He did.” You confirm. “Why?” 

“I’m the one who took care of it in his absence. This is his son, your cousin. We’re here to reclaim the property.” 

_“What?”_

_They can’t just do that!_ “You can’t just do that!” 

“We can and we are. You see, it says in his will, which I’m sure you already know, that in the lack of a subsequent heir, _you_ shall inherit the property along with the home and all the moisture farming equipment residing on it, however…” 

This can’t be happening. Just one break. That’s all you ask. 

The man, he’s yet to give you his name, pulls out a copy of the will and holds it out for you to take. You look into his face, then down at the document before grabbing it slowly. 

“You’ll notice that in the fine print a few paragraphs down he has listed ‘your name here shall inherit this property yadda yadda yadda all the assets including blah blah blah _unless_ ’ - now pay attention, this is important - ‘a more suitable inheritor arrives to take her place’ that’s your cousin over there, ‘in which case, the land and all its assets should be rescinded from the previous owner’ that’s you, ‘and given to the more suitable inheritor’ again, that’s him.” 

You stare down at the paper in shock, haven’t even found the lines he had been reading yet, your hand shaking. You look up at them, confused and infuriated. 

“This is my house. I’ve lived here since he died. No one else had interest in this farm until just now, and I’ve never even met you. You can’t do this. If this is some weird trick for something else, just do it so we can get this over with.” 

“As much as we’d like to, we can’t. Your cousin-” 

“I’m sure he can speak for himself.” 

“ _Your cousin_ got himself in a bit of a bind. He had been living with your uncle on Cantonica and remained there after the passing of his father having inherited gambling winnings that should have left him more than comfortable for the rest of his life, however he seems to have inherited your shared relative’s affinity for laying the odds and has come out nothing short of broke. As the overseer and executioner of the will, he had come to me for help and since it is my job to see that it is enacted to the fullest extent of his late father’s wishes, I collected him and came here.” 

“I…you cannot be serious. I make barely enough to keep myself alive. It’s hard work. The vaporators require constant repairs. Not to mention, you don’t look like you’ve lived on this planet a day in your life. Do you even know what this is?” You flash the sonic screwdriver, gaze shifting between both their faces. 

“You kick me out and I have nowhere else to go.” 

“As unfortunate for you as that is, I must remind you this is all the desire of your uncle.” _That slimy, good for nothing, nerf-herder piece of bantha fodder if he weren’t dead you’d kriffing kill him twice._ “Perhaps you could return to your home planet Alderaan. Oh, that’s right. Such a shame.” 

You try very hard not to let the sting of his reminder show up on your face. “Are you serious? That’s it. I have to leave?” 

“I suggest you start gathering your things. You have whatever daylight is left and til the suns’ set tomorrow to be gone and off the farm. We expect everything to remain functional or as it is now.” 

You want to clutch at your hair and scream, to freak out, to ball up the paper in your hand and throw it at their blaster-brained faces, but all you do is stand there and silently fume, watching as they return to the skiff. 

Once they’re gone and out of sight, you yell - shout into the sky and kick the brown, coarseweave bag holding your tools as hard as you can. The satchel tumbles, some of the items inside go flying out and land somewhere and it’s all you can do to try not to cry. This couldn’t have happened at any other time, it had to happen now - right at the exact moment you have someone else to worry about, when you need your home more than ever. You could almost laugh at how hysterical it all is if you weren’t so heartbreakingly distraught. 

Sniffling and grinding your teeth, you pick everything up, slow and steady in an effort to collect yourself before you step back into the house, all the while trying to come up with something to do, a way out or a place you go could go. 

Cobb’s door is always open, has said so himself. Visit us again soon. You’re always welcome in Mos Pelgo. 

The problem is that explaining this to him would be difficult, not to mention the impermanence of your living situation if you ever chose to lay down roots. The krayt dragon for one thing rearranges the landscape like it had been hired by the planet’s maker to consistently keep things fresh, which isn’t exactly conducive with the stability Boba needs to heal properly. But you also can’t just show up at Marshall’s door with a half-dying man and a droid who likes to talk and expect him to be comfortable with letting you all inside. You don’t like the idea of being a burden, and would rather spend the rest of your life surviving by the skin of your teeth than feel like you owed something to somebody that you’d never be able to pay back in return. 

Which leaves you with two options: 

Fight. Stay here and wait for them to return in a day and a half. 

Or go someplace entirely different trusting you don’t kill Boba on your venture to nowhere. 

Returning to the house, you’re considerably less shaken but not any less angry or scared, keeping your head down and staying quiet as you hang your bag back up and unravel your protective scarves from around your head and neck. 

Patch whirrs into the room, greets you with a soft and questioning chirp. 

“Not now. Please. We’ll talk about it later.” 

He pushes his head up against your hand. His sweet undertaking at comforting you is painfully bittersweet, makes your eyes fill with tears and you sniffle again, then lean down to his height and smile. “No matter what happens, you know I’ll keep you safe, right?” Your droid beeps. “Of course you do, you’re a good boy, Patch.” 

“Alright, I’ve got to go check on our patient. Hopefully he’s in a better mood than he was this morning.” 

Standing up, you go to the refresher first to wash your hands and make yourself slightly more presentable. Not that you particularly care what he thinks of your appearance given the way he looks right now, but you had just spent the better part of the afternoon outside being pelted by dirt when the wind blew and covering yourself in grease and the other half of it trying not to commit homicide. You also don’t want for him to catch on to the way that things are going seriously and hastily wrong. You’ll have to tell him eventually, and knowing the little that you do about him, he’s going to no doubt figure it out anyway, but you’d rather try to make it sometime after redressing his wounds. 

Your eyes are red and slightly puffy. You can blame that on being outside. Your trembling hands, too. It’s going to be fine. 

Everything will be fine. 

He’s awake, if he had ever gone to sleep, when you walk back into the room. In your hands you carry the medpac you returned to the fresher the night before, filled with a few more things from your medicine cabinet, some extra gauze and antiseptic. Nothing fancy like synthflesh or irrigation bulbs, those had long been lost or non-existent, but enough to have gotten the job done when you found him, and enough still to do it again now. You’re worried another trip to Mos Eisley will have to wait.

“Is it alright if I change your bandages now?” 

Boba sits up, groans quietly under his breath. He’s in a lot of pain, trying to hide it from you even though he shouldn’t. “Go ahead.” 

Approaching the bed, you set the health pack down, then open it and take the things you’ll need out - bacta, the bandages themselves, your mother’s salve, and a pair of small scissors. You’re more nervous than you had been before despite how much riskier it had been treating him. At least when you were doing your best to fix him, he was half-out of his mind already. You didn’t need to worry about hurting him too much because you knew he wasn’t going to end up remembering it except now he will. Now he’s going to be wide awake and aware of everything you’re doing. Aware of your ineptitude. 

“I’m not sure how this is going to feel, but I’m sure it isn’t going to feel great, so if it starts to be too painful or you need a break, let me know and I’ll stop.” 

“I can handle it, kid.” He replies, gruff and nearly annoyed, wanting to get this over with already. When you look away, down at your things and fiddle with undoing the bacta patches his disposition softens. “But thank you.” 

You look up into his face. He looks back. 

“Okay, so I’ll um…I’ll get started, then.” 

Daylight doesn’t make it any easier. You thought that it would, being able to properly see and all, yet all it does is make you more apprehensive. The bacta and salve had worked miracles, but he’s far from being completely healed, and with each bandage you slowly and carefully unravel from around his arms and neck and face and with each wince he barely keeps to himself the out of depth, _Maker what the hell am I doing_ feeling in the pit of your stomach increases and intensifies. You frequently travel back to the conversation you had outside, too, which doesn’t make anything better, forced to imagine having to do this by fire’s light, shivering and constantly brushing away sand. 

“What happened out there?” Boba speaks up after twenty minutes, his tone surprising in its tenderness. 

“Your droid-” He inhales sharply and closes his eyes when a bit doesn’t come away as easily as the others have been. You apologize weakly. “Came in as if something had. His aggravating little chirps woke me up.” 

You don’t take your focus off his arm, your face burning. “It’s nothing you should have to worry about. I’ll figure it out.” 

You cut off the bandage, press it gently to his skin so that it sticks to the bacta underneath. Almost finished. You’ll be able to leave this conversation soon. 

“I’m stuck here bedridden and at your mercy. This concerns me. Now isn’t the time to spare my feelings out of niceties.” 

He’s right. He has just as much a right to know what’s going on as you do. Out of the three of you affected by this, he’s the one most at risk. He deserves to know, and be able to make a decision for himself based on that information, even if that makes leaving when he shouldn’t. 

“When I had inherited this farm, I was under the impression that I was the only one it was given to since no one else came to claim it. You can imagine that not many of my family members are eager to be on this planet, but apparently I was wrong.” You swallow back the venom in your words, try to keep your voice soft as you clean up. “My cousin and the man who ran this farm for my uncle before he died showed up while I was outside working and told me I have until tomorrow to leave. There was some specification I hadn’t read in his will that makes any ‘more suitable inheritor’ the rightful owner of this property should they reveal themselves. And today-” 

You laugh at the absurdity of it, standing up. 

“Today someone did, so…” 

“I was going to tell you about this, I swear, but I wanted to - kriff - I wanted to make sure I had a plan first. Someplace we could go or maybe a way we could end up staying, but then you asked and I couldn’t just keep this from you and now I’m panicking even more because I rescued you and kept you here when I should have been smart and taken you somewhere else to someone far more capable than me because now you’re stuck here and about to be homeless right along with me and-” 

“These men are returning tomorrow?” 

You pause. Make an effort to understand. “Yes, at suns’ set.” 

Boba nods slowly, pulls back the blanket and you’re about to protest when he swings his feet over the side of the bed and calmly, deliberately stands up. 

“What are you saying we do?” 

“We get ready for them.”


	3. Chapter 3

Boba’s moral code is a lot more complex than what you might expect from an interstellar mercenary. 

Not that you know he is one. Not yet, at least. Quite possibly not ever with the way things are looking. 

But he does. So this, all of it, whatever it can be called, is -

Surprising. 

He’s helped people, lots of them actually, so it isn’t the _generosity_ that’s making him uncomfortable. What he doesn’t like is that he can’t distinguish where his gratitude and desire to repay you ends and this weird compulsion to help you regardless anyway begins. He could rationalize it, if it bothers him that much. When this is over he could always chalk his actions up to self preservation. He could tell himself that he had behaved in his own self interest. Losing the farm would mean losing somewhere stable to heal, and would mean losing you. Losing you would mean losing possibly the only person brave and naïve enough to take care of him. And for a bounty hunter known for his straightforwardness and apathy, saying he was only making the smartest decision for himself wouldn’t be an unexpected explanation. 

Yet.

He isn’t good, has never bothered toying around with the idea of entertaining such a contradictory and often too sterile, concrete alignment before because he isn’t interested in a redemption arc. He’s a killer many times over, has ended the lives of others without hesitation if paid a high enough price to do so, and was taught by his father to live his life a certain way. And even though it’s gotten to the point that if he were trying to keep track of the bounties he’s claimed, he’s not sure his memory would go back that far; humans and other species in age and race and creed so varied he can’t name them all - 

He’s always been an honorable man. 

So he either gives himself fully, or he doesn’t give himself at all. 

How he feels shouldn’t matter. 

“Please, you can barely stand.” 

You walk over to the bed and try to encourage Boba to sit back down. Just minutes before he had been wincing. You saw his skin. If this weren’t happening, you would have decided that some movement would be good, but there’s a difference between taking a few steps and getting fresh air and fighting two healthy strangers with an agenda, yet he limps past you anyway, heading towards the closet on the far side of the room. 

You follow, talking to his back. “Boba, you don’t know these men. They were armed. I don’t have any weapons. Who’s to say they won’t come back with more? You and I won’t be able to fight them. We’d be outnumbered. We’d get ourselves killed. Are you listening to me?” 

“I saw you pull a chest from this closet. Grab it for me.” 

You could trip him. Kick in the shins. Something equally as grating as being completely ignored. 

“All that’s in there are scraps of old clothing. If your plan is to use them, I’m not sure they’d let us get close enough to be of any use.” 

He stops, looks down at you. “Just do it.” 

Exhaling in resigned frustration, you press a button on the wall to your immediate right and the small metal door opens with a quiet mechanical hiss. The trunk he’s talking about rests at the bottom. Your outerwear hangs above it, along with a pair of goggles and an extra set of gloves for emergencies after a particularly bad sandstorm had buried your power grid and blanketed the homestead in darkness. You still have scars from a few wind burn scabs that refused to heal properly. 

Boba looks at it and hums as if confirming something, the noise mixed with what might be disgust. “That’s what I thought.” 

Tugging it out and onto the floor, you glance over your shoulder at him in confusion. “What do you mean that’s what you thought?” 

“I want you to take a look at something,” he points to the lid. “It’s difficult to tell if you don’t know what you’re seeing, but someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to deface the insignia here on the top.” 

You study the box and notice nothing out of the ordinary with it, nothing different that might make it stand out from the first time you had found it, and you try - you do, studying it as if it were something you’d never seen before, yet still you discern nothing. It’s old, the handles are worn and the durasteel is rusting, but aside from being around since before your birth, you don’t understand what’s so significant about something you’ve been using to store rags and pieces of cut up coarseweave. 

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” 

Boba hesitates. You rise to your feet. “What, Boba?” 

“There’s no easy way of asking this.” He pauses, grows more serious. If you weren’t so worried about what he might say, you’d have noticed the pity hidden in his expression. “Was your uncle sympathetic to the Empire?” 

Flushing, you look down at the box and grow defensive. “Why would that matter? He’s been dead for five years. I know almost nothing about him aside from that after our planet, he…” 

“He owned this farm, did he not?” 

“Yes, but I-”

In all your time alone on this wasteland you never thought that you’d be telling this story to anyone, not even Cobb, your only friend if you could call him one. 

“When I was a child, I remember my mother telling me I’d no longer be seeing my uncle. But when I asked her why she refused to explain it to me. I could see that even having to tell me that was troubling, so I never asked again. She withdrew, tried to smile when I was around and stayed pleasant for my father, but I knew something was wrong-” The breath in your throat catches. You push through it. “And I was…devastated. This was her brother, the man who would take me to see the Cloudshape Falls before I could walk, snuck me my first sips of emerald wine. I couldn’t understand why he would have suddenly disappeared from our lives unless he was in trouble or had done something terrible.” 

Each time you think about it the effect it has on you changes, takes on its own unique viscosity. A different density depending on how you’re feeling before the memories arrive like tapered ghosts and force you to think them. Most of the time you’re okay, can handle the weight. They come and then they go and you move on. Speaking them aloud, however, giving them shape - 

Making them real again, breathing into a dead world new life is novel, something new, something you’ve never done before. And so as you’re speaking the outlines of this one collapse, shrinking like something vacuum-wrapped around the shapes of you and Boba and the configurations of people no longer in your life. 

“I was twelve, old enough to realize that he wasn’t coming back, but young enough to still hope that he would when the Death Star was finished being constructed and was ready to be fired. Somehow my parents found out…I don’t know if it was my uncle who told them or if somehow they just knew I needed to leave the planet, but all that was said to me was that I’d be seeing him again. I was so excited I didn’t think about it twice. I left my parents that day for Tatooine. If I was just a little older I would have realized how weird that was, how out of character it had been for my parents to send me away to a place like that and I would have recognized that they weren’t crying only because they were going to miss me. But I wasn’t…so I said goodbye like I’d be seeing them again and got onto the ship that arrived to pick me up with the belongings I could carry. It wasn’t until I arrived in Mos Eisley that I realized I’d never be going back.” 

Boba doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to in order to show that he’s listening. The pressure of him looking at you is more than enough. 

“I think it was the guilt because I never saw him in uniform. It would have made him do this, too.” You make a gesture towards the vandalized trunk. “He never left. I knew, though, and he knew that I knew, but we never said anything. I stayed with him for less than six months until I couldn’t stand to be around him anymore and left. A few weeks later, I caught wind that he had gone to Cantonica, and had left his farm to some stranger. I didn’t care. Had never planned to come back here or talk to him again anyway, but then he died and I was running out of options. I’ve been taking care of the homestead ever since.” 

Inheriting as big a project as a moisture farm at sixteen wasn’t easy. You knew no one. Any schooling you had or progress you made had been slowly forgotten and replaced by what you needed to learn and retain in order to survive on your own. Then suddenly you had all this responsibility and no one to help you with it. The first year and a half you lived without electricity. By your eighteenth birthday you had managed to earn some credits by selling whatever you could and bartering with traders in the nearest town for the rest. You met Cobb at twenty. 

Now you’re here. 

“So yes, he was, and if this skrogging chest is a regalia from his days as an Imperial like you’re implying that it is, do whatever you want with it.” 

Finished, you feel as if a forgotten second skin is being inflated, hot and obtrusive, as if the room has started to depressurize. You half expect your ears to pop. No one else aside from yourself and perhaps your would-be cousin know this story except, now, for Boba. You’re not sure how it makes you feel. A weight has been lifted somewhere indiscernible in your chest like it had been hanging from one of your ribs, falling away to a place you’d be able to pinpoint if you had the time, but you don’t. Not that you want to find out anyway, aware of how desperately vulnerable this has made you. All you want is to be out of his sight to recover, if only for a few seconds, before you say anything else you could regret. 

The box. Your cousin and the stupid nerf-herder who used to run this farm. Whatever plan he has. It can wait. 

Moving to walk past him, Boba surprises you by catching your elbow - gentle, not firm enough to hurt, his bandaged hand careful for both his and your sake, but enough to get you to stop. “Wait.” 

You don’t look at him, your eyes planted firmly to your boots. Scuffed and falling apart. You’ve been meaning to get new ones. Patch rolls closer to you from his spot hiding in the corner. He had wheeled close to his charging port as soon as Boba stood up and remained out of sight for the majority of your conversation, quietly listening to you talk. He isn’t brave enough to get between you two, not yet, but beeps softly, his head tilted in your direction. You appreciate his wanting to help.

You smile at him like your mother. 

“If I had known how distressing explaining this to me would be for you, I wouldn’t have asked.” 

You get the impression that he isn’t one to apologize often by how stilted and awkward his leaves his mouth. Still, you can’t bring yourself to look any higher than his legs. 

“There was no way you would have known.” You answer him softly, the words like ash - dying embers rising from inside a burned down house. It hurt talking about it, the same way being near a flame does. It also feels like a relief to have let it go, the same way stepping back from one does, too. 

You slip out of his hold, don’t see the way his hand lingers in the air for half a second like he wasn’t expecting you to step away, similar to how adults hug their children or something equally as helpless, advice given or overheard or just innately known that as time goes on and as people get older that those precious little moments become fewer and fewer. _Don’t ever be the first one to let go. You need it more than they do._

“So…what’s in here that you’re looking for?” 

Boba recovers, opens the chest and hands the clothing inside to you. You set them down on the floor. Today’s usually the day you oil Patch’s wheels. It would have also been the day you’d try to get Boba into some new robes. Here you had been stressing over that. Seems silly and foolish now. 

“There should be a compartment-” He reaches in, searches for it with his fingertips. “-purposefully hidden by a false bottom to hide weapons and personal belongings. If your uncle was as stupid as he sounded, I’d bet he forgot the chamber existed.” 

He knocks on the plate of metal making up the ‘seat’ of the trunk. The inside of it mutely echoes. “You see, hollow.” 

He then reaches in further and after a few seconds something clicks. The bottom retracts. You stare down at it in surprise. You could kick yourself for not noticing before. Having a blaster earlier on would have made so many things that much easier. 

The pistol is no bigger than your hand. Boba explains as you pick it up that blasters like these were manufactured to be small enough to hide on someone’s body, typically tucked into a boot or enfolded between layers of robes - somewhere easily accessible yet unnoticeable. A last resort sort of thing, or when forced into situations when being armed is frowned upon - important dinners, meetings. 

“This one is old. And your uncle did not take good care of it.” He exhales, studying the weapon awkward in your palm. The delanite used to power it is close to rotting, it is leaking oil and the scope is cracked, making it almost useless. 

“We don’t have many options. Actually, we just have one and this is it.” You wave with the blaster to emphasize your point and Boba’s hands shoot out to your wrists, taking it from you carefully. 

“It should work for our purposes.” He checks the safety. Fortunately it had been on. “I would ask if you’re familiar, but seeing as you were merely a few seconds away from accidentally shooting yourself with it you’ve already told me all I need to know.” 

You make a face. “Has anyone ever told you that you kinda suck?” 

He snorts. You try not to stare when he studies the gun and grins. “In far more insulting language, yes.” 

Nodding, you wipe the grease on your hands down the front of your pants, smiling back. “Remind me when I come across the next guy I find dying in the sand to leave him there. They turn out to be jerks.” 

“I don’t trust you not to hurt yourself with this, so I will be keeping it. My presence should be enough to dissuade thieves thinking they are evicting a woman living by herself. However, we cannot rely on that alone.” Boba looks up and out the windows, then towards the doorway. “There is still enough suns light to secure the farm. I am in no state to fight and without my armor, we must be strategic about this.” 

“Wait. Are you saying that I’m to face them by myself?” 

It’s his turn to make a face. “Think about what you’ve just asked.” 

“I know you’ll be there, but you said so yourself that you are in no condition to resist them and _I don’t know how_. The last altercation I had was with a stubborn bantha that had wandered off its owner’s property. Even then it left with a belly full of my groceries. I doubt this will be a similar interaction.” 

The idea of having to defend the three of you by yourself is enough to have you panicking. You’ll do it. Of course you will, but it won’t be much of a fight. It’s making you misunderstand him, to believe that that is his idea - to send out the lamb. 

“Do you trust me?” 

His question stuns you. 

He hasn’t given you a reason not to have faith in him. Yet you know from experience that inaction isn’t enough. The absence of it does not mean it is there. 

“I have to.” 

_Yes._

“Then you must trust that I know what I’m doing. These men won’t be expecting me, and will likely show up alone. They won’t be expecting a fight, either, and we won’t be bringing one to them. My plan is to get them to leave without bloodshed. The rest are precautions.” 

He sets the blaster down on the table, then walks towards the doorway and looks out, studying the land. “We should start now before it gets dark.” 

“I-” you don’t know what to say - thank you sounds too much like the proper answer, like if you said it, it would only be because you have nothing else to say, nothing more meaningful, something to fill a lack in your vocabulary instead of adequately conveying the gratefulness and appreciation you have for him right now in this moment. You thank him anyway in a voice like brushed out cotton. 

“I won’t let them take this from you, little one.” 

Your heart hiccups. 

“But what if-” You look away sharply, cannot be bold enough to say what you want while looking at him. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself…” 

“Maybe I just hope that if I were in your situation, someone would do the same for me.” 

-

“What do they mean?” 

The work is finished. Under Boba’s instruction and with some of his help, you had managed to fasten the homestead the best you’d be able to given the circumstances. In a few hours, he had taught you how to hide wire in the sand, how to use the landscape to your advantage. Anything valuable or not easily repaired was taken inside the house or hidden in the back. He had cautioned that whatever you did, it had to be subtle. That meant not moving the big things, leaving your windows - secure enough for sandstorms but perhaps not blasterfire - unbarred. It also meant not laying obvious traps. The moment they notice you’ve taken measures to oppose them is the instant they become violent. 

You feel good about this, thought. Slightly more optimistic. 

The fire casts your face in hues of orange and red as you lean forward, adding an additional cloth to the small pit you’ve created, it’s light soft and flickering, touching you the way he wishes he were brave enough to. Perhaps when he was younger, bolder, he would have. But he’s an old man now, weak. The trouble he’d bring into your life would not be worth the pain it’d put you through. 

It’s dark. In a few minutes dusk will have settled entirely into night. You sit with your knees pulled up to your chest, your arms crossed around them with your hand holding your wrist, your outline hazy and blurring into the obscurity that surrounds you both. 

Tatooine isn’t known for its beauty but there’s a certain awe and quietude in this. 

“What are you referring to?” 

You watch the fabric catch flame and the smoke get more steady. 

“The tattoos…I noticed them while changing your bandages, but hadn’t thought to ask. I wasn’t sure what they were until your skin started to heal. And since…since I might lose everything tomorrow, it’d be nice to know a little about the man trying to stop that from happening.” 

You remember worrying the ink had been an infection of some sort that you didn’t recognize, something atrophying discoloring his arms and torso. Then as the bacta started working you realized it wasn’t that at all. He had tattoos. Multiple. Across the slopes of his shoulders, down his back and chest. The state he was in made it difficult to discern what any of them were, not that you were particularly focused on finding their meaning in that moment, but now that he’s here - still breathing and sitting across from you, reflecting, you’re brave and curious enough to ask. 

Boba is quiet. The fire crackles. You aren’t sure what kind of reaction this was going to get you, but your immediate thought is that somehow in your ignorance you’ve offended him, but it turns out he was only thinking. 

“This means Kamino.” He lifts his sleeve and points to a band of small text in a language you don’t recognize that wraps around his left wrist, flanked by a triangular geometric pattern that stretches down a distance on the back of his hand, stopping short of his knuckles. 

“I don’t recognize the script. What’s it written in?” 

“You wouldn’t. It’s written in Mando’a, my native tongue. Not that it’s particularly decipherable after my incident.” 

He’s talking about the scarring. The bacta had really done a lot of work, salvaged and repaired a lot that should have been irreversibly damaged, but even still after an encounter like that and suffering the injuries he did, there had been no way of escaping his injuries looking entirely unharmed from the beginning. White tissue splices through parts of him like bits of a river streaming out from sea. The others, deeper and thicker, more damaged skin, crack and split the tattoos covering his body as if acting like fault lines. You aren’t brave enough to ask what is implied when the artwork is cut in half. 

“Are all of them written in Mando’a?” 

“The majority of them, yes. The one on my forearm means truth and honor. This means clan or family. This here-“ he touches his right bicep, the tattoo hidden beneath his black robes, “is my father’s name.” 

You’re quiet for a moment. Then. 

“What was it?” 

Boba tilts his head up higher. A sort of pride inhaling his chest. You understand the feeling.

“His name was Jango.” 

“Jango…” you repeat. “That’s a good name. My father’s name was Kal.”

“Kal is a good name.” He affirms.

You look down at the ground and smile. “He was a good man.” 

“As was mine.” 

The conversation lulls. There’s so much about him that you don’t know. You feel out of your depth in asking. He’s a private man, you haven’t had to know him long to gather that, but he’s also so much more knowledgeable. Understands life and the world better than you do. It’s intimidating. Yet all you are is full of questions. 

“Do you…do you ever wonder what it would be like if they were still around?” 

You’re presuming. Maybe projecting, too. Still, the urge to ask remains. A pointless question bordering on childlike in its ignorance. Of course people wonder. It’s human nature to imagine what mold their lives would have taken if their loved ones were still in it, but there’s still a reason people ask these things anyway. 

They act as bridges. Connections. Both to the past and to the present. To each other. 

“Not since I was a child. Even then, I rid myself of those thoughts.” 

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” 

“After my father was murdered by the Jedi, I dedicated much of my life to avenging his death. I was an angry, vengeful child, and I did many things that I now regret.” 

Regret might not be the right word, but nothing quite comes close enough to describing how he feels, and this is the only way of describing it to you in terms that you’d understand aside from vaguely stating that this is what happens as you get older. That fury, that pain, it all becomes corrosive. And although he still feels it, his journey is no longer about righting his grievances. 

“I inherited his armor and his ship, rebuilt both in his memory, but did not allow myself to become distracted by such fruitless thoughts…” 

But. 

“But I have now reached an age where revenge is no longer my priority. I suspect it hadn’t been for a long time, and that I had been using his death as an excuse for my actions.” 

Boba looks at you fully. He has brown eyes. What a funny thing to notice. 

“The force connects us. As long as I live, so does he. We cannot bring our loved ones back, but we can respect their lives and sacrifice by living ours.” 

You don’t know what to say, honestly hadn’t been expecting such heavy and sage advice. It’s so, so easy to dwell, to make up scenarios in which something did or did not happen. After losing Alderaan, that’s all you did. It was all you _could do_ to cope, stuck on a desert planet with a man partially responsible for the destruction of your life. Entirely alone in a galaxy full of people.

Survivor’s Guilt, you know it’s called now, but when you were thirteen a year later and still trying to figure out why you had your life spared when almost no one else had you weren’t so focused on naming it as you were trying to endure it. 

“What if that’s hard?” 

He’s quiet for another moment, then gets up. You watch, confused, then surprised when he sits down next to you, close enough to feel his body heat. 

Boba places his hand over your own. “That’s what makes it honorable.” 

Shyly, tentatively, you rest your head on his shoulder, and you watch the stars. 


	4. Chapter 4

You wake before dawn to gentle shaking and the sound of your name being called. 

But you are warm. And up against something comfortable, wrapped in a blanket of some sort. You’d much rather stay where you are, blissfully unaware of the things going on around you, than fully awake and cognizant of the possibility that come tonight you could be having your property stolen from you, this whole nightmare made possible by a frustratingly vague loophole in a will you wanted no part of and the two men looking to take advantage of it. 

So you keep your eyes closed and desperately try to hang on to your unconsciousness. 

A quiet trill of concern. Patch somewhere in front of you, a presence in front of your eyelids.

“If my plan had been to harm her, droid, I would have gotten rid of you first.” 

Another affronted beep. The shaking has stopped, but you know that he’s still at your side, studying your face by the shadow you feel. You attempt to curl further in on yourself by hiding beneath the cloth around your shoulders, hoping to escape his efforts at waking you up as well as the suns steadily rising above the horizon. 

“Your little robot is concerned for your safety. I suggest you wake before he’s convinced I killed you.” 

As funny as it would be to watch your tiny companion fight your new roommate, you’re afraid it would do the droid more harm than good - not that Boba would hurt him intentionally. Patch just happens to be accident prone and contains less self-preservation than common sense. You don’t have the supplies to repair a photoreceptor after his last incident with a particularly brave needle rat, nor the inclination to get yourself involved and hurt in the process. You were picking spines from your robes and hands well into the evening it happened, so you huff and let the blanket fall enough to reveal both of them leaned over you - a sight quite worth seeing. 

“His name is Patch, Boba.” 

“She rises.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice that you’re not sure you mind hearing that makes you smile a little as you begin to sit up, rubbing your eyes free from sand and sleep. 

“Yes, she’s awake. Although she wishes she weren’t. What time is it?” 

You drop your hands, blink a few times. Looking around, you notice first that the fire has died and that the pit you had created has begun to fill with sand, the charred remains of your uncle’s clothing buried beneath small dunes that grow bigger as the wind blows. Patch rolls back and forth nervously on his wheels right about where you sensed he had been; slightly off the side, his head ducked as he stares at you, not quite void of his concern for your well-being but getting there. You smile at him fully and think it would have been amusing if whoever created him had given him shoulders as you reach forward to brush him free of the morning’s worth of grit. 

Boba is to your left, speaking softly. “Early yet.”

You accept this answer and go to stretch, still in the process of waking up. “How long have you been awake?” 

“Not long.” He starts to explain, rising to his feet. You try not to watch him with too much concern. Every day he gets stronger. The last thing you want is to make him feel as if that isn’t happening, or as if he must rely on you for everything, strongly doubtful that he’d take well to being babied and having to table the urge to hurry to him. Although you know he’s capable of doing a lot himself, he’d proven that to you yesterday, you are trying now to hang on to the boundaries that you set, fearing they are beginning to blur; your worry and dismay for him starting to tread into more ambiguous and frighteningly less platonic territory. A development you aren’t ready for him to discover, either. 

“The droid had woken me up. I told him to quiet down before he could wake you as well.” 

That’s nice, you appreciate, battling the nervous heat that pools low in your belly by continuing to stretch, yawning. Your arms make it about half-way above your head before you feel what had been wrapped around your shoulders fall, the fabric pooling around your hips. Stopping, you glance down at it and frown. Fully awake now, you don’t remember bringing any blankets out with you. 

You pick it up. It takes you a moment to register what it is instead. 

His cape. 

“Oh, Maker. We’ve been out here all night?” You look at him as if he’ll disconfirm what you know already to be true. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

You should have been more aware this would happen. What a dumb idea it was to be out here to begin with. “You should have woken me up. Your bandages-” If he has a kriffing infection you’ll never forgive yourself. 

“You slept on the ground-” 

Standing, you brush away the granules sticking to your pants. You had underestimated how easy it would be once comfortable enough to fall asleep after having spent the last two days sleeping at your table while Boba slept in your bed, ignoring your exhaustion and aching muscles to instead focus on what must be the galaxy’s biggest practical joke. Last night had been your first real reprieve in a while - not just from what’s happening currently - but from the everyday stresses of living out here on this farm by yourself. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

“Relax. The air was good for my skin and I’ve slept in far worse conditions. You needed the rest.” 

“I could have just as easily slept inside.” 

“Uncomfortable, twisted up at the table?” 

“I-” You close your mouth, then try again. “That’s not the point.” 

You had no idea he had noticed, hit with an illogical pang of self-consciousness. You turn away from Boba and toe the dirt with your shoe. 

A moment of strained silence passes. 

“I suspect your friends will be returning sooner than they had mentioned. It’s best we get inside and prepare ourselves until then.” 

With nothing more keeping you outside, you heed his advice, retrieving the cape you had so inelegantly dropped in your panic and lightly jostling it free from any sand or scrubby vegetation that might have stuck to it while you were sleeping. You fold it, shy from the idea of having to hand it back to him, carrying it in with you and placing it on the counter without question to avoid discussing the item any further. 

Patch chirps at you quietly. 

“Not now, Patch. I don’t want to talk about it.” 

He rolls away, droning pitifully, hunkering underneath the stand harboring a never ending game of holochess you’ve been playing against yourself atop a circular desk in front of the corner booth that makes up the seating arrangements of your tiny living room. Laid neatly on the worn cushions are the remnants of Boba’s old clothing, washed and left hanging to dry, you had intended to grab them, but it seems he has already done it for you. 

The kitchen table, too, is cleared of its usual spare parts and thermajugs and houses instead a medkit and a packet of open sani-gauze. The older ones he had tossed into the trash compactor. You move to face him. 

“I had intended to have that cleared before waking you, but it had taken longer than anticipated.” 

“Were you able to get all of them?” 

Your anxiety over his burns heavily outweighs your desire to ask him why, again, he hadn’t bothered getting you to help. 

This time you do approach him. 

It occurs to you that after your conversation last night, interactions like these might take on a new characteristic. Of course, you have known from the beginning that he’s a man. A handsome one at that. Sturdy. Strong. The damage he’s suffered has done nothing to diminish that. His gender hadn’t been your focus, however. Far from it, actually. Too interested in keeping him alive to bother yourself with contemplating anything else, including the implications of what that might do to your ever confusing feelings. Ignore that you’ve spent the majority of your life alone and there’d still be this strand of something soft and electric existing in the distance between your bodies. 

What had he called that?

When you touch him this time the connection of your hands feels taboo. You slide one hand beneath his and use the other to lift up the sleeve of his robe, gently tipping his bandaged arm towards the glowpanel fixated and lit up on the wall next to the nanowave. He had done a good job. Better, perhaps, than you would have done. They wrap evenly over one another, secure but not tight enough to risk compromising his circulation. You understand without having to ask that this most likely wasn’t the first time he’s had to fix himself. And maybe you spend too much time looking for something that a simple glance would have confirmed, except you much prefer occupying your mind with a fake task like this rather than expose your thoughts to an endless pastime of hyper fixating on the pressure of the warm broad hand resting in your palm and the relaxed set of his shoulders somewhere at the top of your vision. 

Flesh is so much different than the wiring and welding of durasteel and astromech you’re comfortable with and yet similar enough that you nearly get lost in looking at him - treating both requires patience, care, a certain steadiness, but vaporators don’t stare back. They don’t talk, either. Or reserve more space in your head than they warrant. Furthermore, they absolutely aren’t the first thing swimming into your sleepy thoughts at the beginning of each day cycle, creeping up and taking you by surprise with how earnest they are in their tenderness. 

They aren’t him, is what’s happening. 

“They are to your standards?” 

You drop his arm and step away as if it had grown thorns and pricked you, ducking out of his sight before he could possibly see the embarrassment in your face. “Yea-Yeah, they’re fine.” 

“After this,” you make yourself busy by putting small trinkets in your pockets and with picking things up and setting them down in different spots. “We should try to get you to an actual healer. I don’t know what your plan is, or if you’ve thought about it, but I’d like to help.” 

The idea that he’d converge from your path after so abruptly falling into it is something you’ve thought about often enough that you’ve been able to formulate a few scenarios about how it might go when he no longer needs you. The standard ones consist of a goodbye, either at your doorstep or in Mos Eisley. He’ll simply state his intentions over dinner, thank you, wish you well, then be off, never to be seen again. 

Your more indulgent, pitifully crafted daydreams are the makings of how awful it will feel to be alone again. These are the ones you try to get him to stay. 

“I know a few people in Mos Pelgo. It’s a sleepy town, not a lot going on and not as promising as Mos Eisley would be, but their Marshall is a good man. If I asked, he would help us-“ You catch yourself and the hope in your voice. “You, I mean. He owes me a couple favors anyway with how often I repair speeders damaged by that kriffing dragon.” 

“Let’s focus on our more immediate troubles. Remind me to ask about that dragon later.” 

“Right. Yeah.” The swiftness of your agreement is only an insult to yourself. You carry on anyway. 

“So uh…what else is there to do?” 

“You should practice with the blaster. I said I would be keeping it, but I’d like you to be familiar with the weapon anyway. If it were to end up in your hands, the first time you need it should not be your first time using it.” 

“I don’t know about that, Boba…” As a child, you hadn’t much need for an apparatus of such finality. The most you carried along with you was a stick taken off a broken branch of a chinar tree and even still you never used it for more than warding off the occasional bug and making drawings in the dirt, which never accomplished much other than scaring the unfortunate insects off temporarily and frustrating your mother when you disturbed her garden. Arriving on Tatooine had gotten rid of your evasion of flare-wings and the opportunity to create mud art, but despite this, you had and have still managed to survive without relying on anything more than yourself. “Some days I can barely tie my shoes, I’m not sure I’d be any good in a fight.” 

“I know this.” You’d be offended by his immediate acceptance if it weren’t troublingly true. “However, I cannot allow you to come up against these men without being able to protect yourself.” 

“What could I possibly shoot out here?” 

“Your uncle’s chest is an acceptable enough target.” 

Maker, how cathartic that would be. You suspect he knows this. 

\- 

“If I hit one of my vaporators, it’s your neck, Boba.” 

“You can’t hit anything without taking a shot first, which you haven’t.” 

Exhaling to keep from grumbling, you look down at your feet, placing your dominant leg in front of you on the sunbaked earth and the other even with your shoulder like he had instructed. A hundred or so paces away is the trunk catching light, creating a slight mirage that it’s moving - not in a way that should influence any other person’s ability to aim, but for you and your experience with firearms in the negative numbers, you’re ready to hurtle the kriffing thing into space and send the blaster flying after it. 

Which you can’t, obviously. It wouldn’t even be feasible to do. Imagining it burning up in the atmosphere is a nice thought, though. 

The thing is about the length of area in which your front door is from the closest moisture spire, an estimated distance your cousin and that good for nothing previous tenant will be from you and Boba once they arrive, if only for a moment. Near enough for your purposes. Any further away and taking a shot with a blaster so old won’t be worth it. The closer they get, he had said, the harder it will be to miss. 

It’s the little things, you guess. 

“Are you ignoring the part where I said I’ve never handled one of these before?” 

“Merely in the same way you seem to be forgetting that we are pressed for time.” 

You fit both your hands around the blaster’s grip and look down the barrel, tucking your elbow for no other reason than that it feels right. All Boba offers is his silence. That must mean you’re doing it properly, right, otherwise he would have corrected you. Or not. You don’t know. He hardly fills you in on the goings on of his mind. 

There isn’t anything else to do but do it, so you finally center in on the chest in your sights as best you can and pull the trigger. A beam of red explodes forward with a loud ‘pew’ sound and continues on off into the empty realm of sand, mortifyingly off target, hopefully to eventually dissipate into nothing and not hit some unsuspecting creature. It was like you had tried to miss. 

“Wow.” This is the first time you’re hearing him laugh. It’s nice, even if it’s at your expense. “I had been anticipating better. Should your eyesight be a concern?” 

“Okay. I understand that wasn’t great, but I don’t think it was that bad.” 

“No. It was bad.” 

“Yeah, well. You snore.” You gripe as you lower the blaster, staring down at it disagreeably. 

“Allow me to show you.” 

“Something you should have done the first time instead of letting me embarrass myself. Unless you’re just the biggest, most ungrateful nerf-herder alive and knew exactly what you were doing, in which case-” 

“Hush. You talk too much when you’re nervous.” 

“I never said I was-I-oh-okay, um.” 

There’s a brush of coarseweave against your back and a hand on your shoulder. Standing this close, if you turned your head to look at him you’d be sharing the same cloud of air. You’d be invading his space the same way he’s invading yours. Maybe not in quite an intimidating manner, but there nonetheless, willing him to move or daring yourself to tilt your chin up just a little and- 

He kicks the inside of your shoe so suddenly you nearly lose your balance, correcting yourself with little to no grace, adjusting your body so that it stands in line to the scope rather than at an angle to it. He taps the inside of your arm. “Don’t lock your elbow.” 

Cool, so that was wrong. You nod, cheeks burning, trusting he won’t notice the slight tremble of the gun as you hold it up and attempt to keep it steady. 

Still, he doesn’t draw away, his instructions spoken so close to the shell of your ear that it has the nerve endings in your face almost painfully aware of his proximity. “Take a deep breath. Exhale. When there is no more air in your lungs, shoot.” 

Boba breathes out. You breathe out with him. And for a very brief, impossible moment it’s like you’re on a different plane - floating inside your bodies and yet outside them too, incredibly focused and unfocused all at once. Aware, only, of his presence at your back. 

When you fire this time you hit the trunk just left of center, cauterizing a red hot crater through the front plate of durasteel and leaving a smaller exit wound through the back piece. Incredible aim for someone who’s never used the damn thing in her life. You kinda can’t believe it. 

His pleased chuckle has you beaming, but when you turn to look at him, he’s standing off to the side again. The pride in his face keeps you from missing the loss of his warmth. 

“Good.” he concludes. “Now do it again.” 

\- 

“I don’t like just sitting here.” 

It’s been six hours since your target practice and the men have yet to show up. Aware that they had said you had until suns set, you know logically that they are still likely to arrive just as they had said they would, but the waiting is making you anxious. A few more hours and it’ll be nightfall. Boba still expects they’ll show up sooner. At this point, your wish is that they would already, if only to get rid of the anxious flutter making your stomach nauseous. 

Boba doesn’t look up at you from his seat in the booth, focused on the game of dejarik he’s started with Patch. “Then walk around.” 

“Your move.” He comments to the droid currently propped up on a supply box, seemingly indifferent to your plight and to what’s coming. As much as you like his steadfastness and clear head, his assuredness that this will all go to plan is making you spooked that it won’t. 

“I don’t think that will help.” You begin, pacing anyway, pinching your bottom lip between your fingers. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, but literally all that I own is at stake. I don’t have the credits or connections to just move on if this were to go the way we don’t want it to and I’ve already lost everything once, I can’t-” 

Patch beeps impatiently. You go over to the table and move his piece with a frustrated huff. “I don’t have any alternatives. There are no back-ups. I have no one.” 

No family. Hardly any friends. No home planet to return to, either. 

“You have me.” 

The seriousness of his tone makes you look at him in surprise. No one has ever said this to you. Ever. 

“I am but an old man making his way through the galaxy like his father before him. And I cannot say for certain what will happen, but I have promised to protect you, so I will. I am yours until you do not want me.” 

“Oh.” 

_Oh._

\- 

“They’re here.” You say, peeking out the viewport at the sound of a steadily approaching skiff. 

The sky, now burnt orange and cool, is slowly beginning to darken into a deep shade of purple. Somewhere far off, the echo of banthas mooing can be heard along with the quiet hum of your moisture vaporators at work. Typically your favorite part of the day, you’re nothing but a ball of uneasy energy. 

“Are you ready?” Boba is adjusting the belt that wraps around his middle, standing tall in what had been your uncle’s clothing. He’s given the cloak a new life, his leather clad fingers flexing in their gloves.

“No.” You step away from the window and go to get Patch. “I mean, yes, but also like - not really.” 

“Just follow my lead and remember what I told you.” 

You nod, unwilling to speak again and reveal the slowly tightening fist growing in your throat. Crouching to Patch’s level, you do your best to fix your expression and smile weakly at him. “Alright, buddy. This is it, okay?” Whispering makes it better, you think. 

“I want you to stay inside, even if it sounds super scary. Hide by your charging port and do not come out until I come get you, yeah?” 

His visual sensors widen and then narrow, his disquiet emphasized by a low, discordant whistle. 

“I know you want to be with me, but I can’t risk you getting hurt. If they know that you’re here, they’ll try to keep you or worse, so it’s best that you stay out of sight. It’ll only be for a little while. You just stay over there and try not to move.” You stroke the top of his head, then lean forward and kiss him. He squeaks and rolls back, secretly pleased. “Sorry, sorry. Hold on.” 

You rub the kiss away that blurred his vision, laughing. “I love you. See you in a bit.” 

The droid wheels off. You stand to your full height and share a look with Boba. He nods. You step outside alone. 

\- 

You exit to see the men that had visited a day and a half ago jump down from the spacecraft, relieved for the moment that they appear to have arrived with no additional company. 

“Packing light? We had told you to be gone.” The one in charge of the will, Kyp you remember his name being, comments, approaching with your cousin slightly behind to his right. 

“I’m not leaving.” 

“There seems to be some miscommunication. Your departure wasn’t an option.” 

“This is my house. My life. I’m not about to abandon it because you say that I should.” 

Maker, the only thing getting you through this is your awareness that Boba is just on the other side of the door. If you had never found him, if the galaxy hadn’t placed him into your care, you’re sure that you would have ended up in the sand, somewhere between the homestead and Mos Pelgo. 

“You? Alone? You are weak. Why my father decided to rescue you from that Maker forsaken planet never fails to confuse me.” Tinian dismisses. Your brother was named after him. “Shoot her. We’ll deal with the body later.” 

“Sorry, kid. Should have listened.” Kyp pulls his blaster from his hip and your stomach pitches, then drops. 

The blaster is shot out of his fist. The blond wilts inward, clutching the injured appendage to his chest, shouting in pain. Boba slowly lowers the weapon. 

“She is not alone. I advise you to go before you lose more than your hand.” 

“Who the hell is this?” Tinian, pointing his own gun - not at the bounty hunter, but instead at you. 

He steps forward, blocking his shot. “Leave. I will not ask nicely again.” 

“Boba-” you mutter harshly to his shoulders. Although you are defenseless, you aren’t keen on having him act as your human shield. “I didn’t drag your ass through the desert just for you to die acting as my bodyguard, this wasn’t the plan.” 

“Plans change.” He simply murmurs back. 

“I’ll shoot you too, stranger. This isn’t your fight.” 

“Just do it already!” Kyp calls out, bracing himself with his free hand in a crouched position in the dirt. The outside edges of his skin that wasn’t cauterized dot his off-white tunic in red. 

“Only a coward shoots those unable to protect themselves.” 

“I’ll do it! Don’t make me!” 

“I wouldn’t advise that.” 

With the suns nearly dipping beneath the horizon, your land is steadily being plunged into darkness. Light from inside and the skiff’s headlights act like the torches of a mob, illuminating the land in a way that has you uneasy. 

Kyp rises to his feet and stumbles over to your cousin, attempting to rip the gun from his hands. “Give me the blaster! I’ll do it myself!” 

They struggle with it, yelling at one another, the gun fumbling between their palms. Boba catches a hold of your elbow and sends you towards the doorway. “Get inside.” 

“No, I want to stay out here with you. I won’t be able to live with myself if-” 

The blaster goes off, followed by an unnatural jolt and the shriek of metal. The beam hit the top of the vaporator closest to the house, sending a large piece of spire hurtling towards the ground. You look to Boba as if he could do something. His gun, you realize with sickening upset, is jammed, and he fights with it before raising it in the air and throwing it as hard as he can towards Tinian’s face. 

At the same time, Patch comes whirring past your feet, charging towards both assailants. “Patch!” 

The antenna hits him before he can get there, knocking the droid onto his side. 

For a moment you’re too surprised to respond, then you surge forward, trying to get to your helpless robot. You feel a hand closing around your elbow again and you look to find Boba now behind you. At the sight of him, your heart lurches, assailed by both hope and a sense of relief. He’ll help you get to him. But instead of coming to your aid, he puts his arm around you, pining you to his chest. He carries you away, weapon pointed, retreating to the back of the house as you kicked his knees and clawed at his hands, attempting to desperately throw off his grip. 

You begin to scream. “Please! I have to get to him! Patch! Let me go!” 

But instead of unloosing you, he turns you around and half drags and half carries you inside the homestead through the rear entrance, away from the fighting and from the rubble now crushing the only companion you’ve had since you were sixteen. 

Stumbling, he lets you go enough for you to control yourself to the point where you are able to say, in an icy voice, “Get out of the way. Let me get to him.”

Boba loosens his grip, but gingerly, and as you step away from him he makes a motion as if to prevent you from rushing back out, standing in the doorway. 

You can hear the sharp start of the skiff’s engine and smell the reek of burning electronics as your cousin and his accomplice decide that engaging in this further isn’t worth the trouble it is causing, peeling away as quickly as they can down the path leading away from the destruction they’ve left behind. 

“They won’t be away for long and we should not stay to find out.” 

“It was never about the farm…” You whisper, chest hurting and face flushed with adrenaline, tears - hot and traitorous and inescapable, muddying your vision. You sink to your knees, leaning against the wall, your bottom lip trembling and your hands formed into loose fists against the cold stone flooring you’ve been meaning to sweep, but haven’t gotten around to and the next breath you take comes out as a shaking, shuddering sob. 

Boba bends to your level. You sneer, squirm away, but you’ve pressed yourself into a corner with nowhere else to go. 

“Look at me.” 

No, you can’t. Not after what he did. Not after what they did. 

“Look at me, little one.” He’s so patient. You want to scream again. “We can bring him with us, but we need to leave.” 

“And go where? Do what?” 

“I am well enough to begin searching for my ship and armor. You said your friend in Mos Pelgo might be able to help with that. And-” His gloved hand finds your face, the pad of his thumb brushing away a tear as it rolls down your cheek. 

“You have yet to tell me about this dragon.”


	5. Chapter 5

You go, as if by habit, to your usual spot at the table. 

Tinian and Kyp have since disappeared. Tucking tail with a busted face and wounded pride. For a terrifying moment, you had thought they would return with more forces given how desperate your cousin’s financial position seemed to be, and so feared you’d have to leave before anything could be gathered or recovered, but it looks like that at least for now they’ve given up on their siege of your farm and in any other circumstances, you’d be overjoyed. 

Listless and slumped in your chair, all you are is tired. 

“I can retrieve him, if you wish.” 

Boba goes to stand near you and you can sense that he’s trying to respect your space while not coming off as unsympathetic, his desire to comfort you and remain gracious placing him in this strange limbo in which the boundaries between taking it too far and appearing the right amount of sympathetic aren’t easily defined. It’s different at a campfire talking about a loss that’s been allowed to scab over. Approaching a bleeding wound is far more daunting, especially when the person wounded might not want to be touched. 

Staring down at their unfinished game of holochess, you don’t look at him as you shake your head, answering in a weak voice. “No. I can get him.” 

Outside, the piece of vaporator part that had been knocked from its top lay in the dirt like the severed wing of a downed bird, haloed by displaced sand and cracked earth agitated upon impact. That high up and you’d have never guessed it was so big and could mean that much destruction. The rest of the spire crackles, incognizant that it is now headless and by extension absolutely unfunctional, still attempting to suck water out of the atmosphere, and it’s what you’re focused on now instead of what lies half-buried beneath its detached part, crushed.

You gesture to the chess board. “It’s your move.” 

He says your name quietly. 

“I know, I’m just not-” You twist your tunic between your fingers, a familiar burn in your nose and throat. “I’m just not ready yet.” 

“Maker, he never listens. If I had just explained it to him instead of trying to make sure he wasn’t scared, maybe he wouldn’t have-” You wipe frustratedly at your tears; angry at yourself for mourning something that could have been preventable, angry at yourself for believing this could have ever gone well, but most of all angry at yourself for getting attached when all your life has been defined by is suffering. 

“Maybe I could have prevented it. Or at least I could have tried. All I told him was to stay put like I thought he would listen. When has he ever listened to me? As if the droid that refuses to go to bed most nights would hear the words ‘stay inside’ and not immediately want to do the opposite. Your first night here he refused to leave my side even as his battery was dying.” 

It was equal measures amusing and touching as it was irritating trying to convince him in a hushed voice between needle threads that he needed to plug himself into his charging port before he shut down. He had been so dead set on ‘protecting’ you from this stranger that it wasn’t until he lacked enough juice to move that he allowed you to carry him over and put him to sleep.

“Patch. Poor, brave, stupid Patch.” 

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.” A weak sentiment he says in hopes that you’ll realize blaming yourself does neither of you any good, but it only makes you furious. “You should not torment yourself with this.” 

“How would you know? We were doing fine before you showed up. It was peaceful. Just me and him and the farm and if Patch hadn’t noticed you in the sand, you’d still be there. He’s the one that found you. So how can you say that? How can you say we wouldn’t have been able to save him when he’s the entire reason you’re alive?” 

He says your name for a second time. You don’t mean any of what you’ve said aside from what’s the objective truth - Patch is the reason Boba was found and is alive and able to speak to you now, but you cannot rightfully or even logically blame the sequence of events that followed his arrival on him as if he had been some bad omen or harbinger of ill fortune. What had happened, happened because of the greed and foolish decisions of two men looking for the easiest way out of the hole they found themselves in. Boba certainly isn’t responsible for what happened to your droid. Neither are you. You had made an error interpreting his promise to protect you to mean nothing awful would happen. That hadn’t been what he said, and if you had just thought about it a little more you would have seen that the property itself was never a concern - rather the life you have been living on it. A life you had made your own, comfortable despite however spiritless. But grief is blinding. 

You groan, looking away from him with an expression twisted in heartache. “Quit saying my name like it fixes things! Please, I can’t handle the way you say it.” 

“How do I say it?” You wish he’d sound angry or at least something close enough to it because then his reaction would validate your own furied emotions, but all he is is tolerant. Gentle and forgiving. 

It makes you hesitant, afraid to say, and it’s only your impulsive need to prove what you think you know about him right that drives you to answer. “Like you care about me.” 

The older you get, the more alone you feel, and the harder it becomes to believe that not everyone has an ulterior motive. Mos Eisley certainly hadn’t helped you harbor any reason to consider that selfless acts can be entirely driven by only the desire to see another person happy. Your uncle, a deserter sunk to his lowest depths hiding like a womprat in the basement of a tavern, made it so that you never forgot that he had stuck his neck out for you. That he had been the sole reason you did not die with the rest of your planet - with your mother and father, your grandparents, your friends. He had painted it as an act of love. His atonement for joining the Imperials. And you had been so sorry, so upset that he did not think you were grateful that you’d, in the beginning, spend as much time as you could convincing him that the risk he took had been worth it. Until even your amity meant nothing. He’d go on reminding. You’d stay silent, privately recognizing that his incessant need to keep you deferential morphed what could have been his ultimate redemption into something conceited. 

If that hadn’t been incorruptible - if saving someone’s life, giving them lodging, keeping them fed and cared for isn’t the most selfless act of all, what could you possibly trust that wouldn’t eventually bite the hand feeding it. Certainly not the feelings of a man. 

“I do. And I shouldn’t, but not for anything you’ve done.” 

You can’t begin to understand what that means. “Then why? If it’s not something I did then how can you possibly say that you shouldn’t?” 

Perhaps you’re being unfair. Perhaps you’re demanding too much of him in this moment. Tensions are high. You should be planning your next move. Instead you’re sitting here snot nosed and with teeth full of static, wondering at what point you decided that it’s best you should be left alone. 

“You would not understand.” Is his only answer. 

“What I understand is that everyone around me either leaves or dies or ends up not being who I thought they’d be, so yeah I’m a little confused, but I deserve to know at least whether or not I should be bracing myself for some additional blow.” 

A pang of guilt similar to the stone that had fallen into his stomach three days ago. You have no idea who he is. Not even an idea. But rather than tell you, his desire to calm you down outweighs his need to lay his cards on the table, for now at any rate.

“And of those three options, who am I?” 

You look pointedly away, face burning. “I…I don’t know yet. I know nothing about you.” 

“You need to take a deep breath.” 

“Maker, with the kriffing instructions. I don’t want to take a deep breath-“ Look at him. Get inside. You want him to stop. 

“Take a deep breath. Breathe. I’m not your enemy.” 

He’s right. He isn’t and has given you no reason to think he would ever be - you’re just exhausted. You want to find somewhere soft and make your home there. You want to close your eyes and forget. But you’ve got things to do. Arrangements to make. It’ll have to wait. 

Breathing deeply your next exhale is shuddering and pathetic, an exercise to bring your lungs back into their proper rhythm. It helps, though, and soon you take a few more, a strange calm settling over your shoulders. Wiping one last time at your cheeks, you sit up straighter and make an attempt to actually move forward. 

“It’s only going to get darker. After I get Patch we should decide what we’re doing. If we should leave tonight, I mean. I don’t think Cobb would mind, but Jawas aren’t so easily spooked when they can use the dark to hide.” 

Boba makes a noise of agreement. He knows exactly how Jawas can be. “Do we have proper transportation?” 

Sniffing, you stand from the booth. “I own a speedster. It’s only designed for one rider and I haven’t had any reason to use it in months so who knows what kind of condition it’s in, but the seat is long enough to fit us both if you drive. It’s covered in a tarp at the back of the house.” 

“We’ll use that, then.” He concludes. “Grab your companion and anything else you may need. I will get the bike started.” 

“Alright, that works.” 

Neither of you waste any time. Boba exits with you, silent. He never says more than necessary, and you understand his reticence now to be a side effect of his focus and thinking, but as you trek onto the homestead his silence is - or seems to be - at odds with his typical demeanor. It might have been a half step, two at most, in which he walks closer to you, your arms grazing briefly as your strides acquiesced. That isn’t particularly abnormal given his staunch desire to keep you safe. What has you confused is that all the other times he’s touched you it has been an action you saw coming, direct and purposeful. The brush of your clothes is hardly something to obsess over and could very well mean nothing at all; an accidental occurrence or a miscalculation of the distance between your bodies and like everything else, something you’re thinking about too much. But you don’t know, and neither of you have yet to talk about it. 

Splitting off, you choose not to think about it at all. 

Lifting the debris proves problematic. You’re not a weak woman by any means but neither do your skills lie in brute strength. You had dragged Boba for what had been close to fifteen minutes back to the homestead and they had been some of the most challenging fifteen minutes of your life. Similar to that struggle, the sand isn’t making it easier for you now. Your efforts to forgo trying to pick it up and to dig around it as a second resort only allow your frustrations to grow. Each pocket you make gets inundated with sand the moment you stop digging. It’s only when you sit down and begin to push it with your legs that the vaporator part moves. And, as suspected, reveals Patch. 

“Hey, buddy…” You greet, foolishly anticipating a beep back. All you hear is the hiss of rippling silt. “Alright, let’s get you out of there.” 

Upon picking him up, one of his wheels falls into your hand. The bottom portion of his hull is cracked and filled with dirt and where most of the damage is, having taken the brunt of the blow. There’s no telling what exactly suffered what until you take a better look at him and the semi-darkness doesn’t allow for any close inspections. He’s intact still, which is what you had been hoping for. If you can figure out what’s wrong or get him into the right pair of hands, there’s a chance of bringing him back. 

Boba brings the speeder around to the front. On his shoulder is a dark brown satchel from the closet. He had taken the liberty of gathering your things for you as well as retrieving the forgotten blaster, which he has tucked into the belt around his waist, giving you the time to properly get your droid. He nods at you when you approach. 

“As you said, we should leave soon. I can feel a dust storm coming. Are you ready?” 

“Yeah, just let me grab something to put Patch in and we can go.” 

There’s a bag under your bed filled with your belongings from Alderaan, useless trinkets and memorabilia that then, in the mind of a twelve year old, had been some of the most important things you could carry. You dump all of it save for a framed holopix of your family taken when you were eight and a stuffed grey thranta that has been with you since infancy, resisting the desire to stare at both and wonder where that little girl was now, and how she ended up here, sidetracking it by carefully replacing everything else with the robot. 

Going back outside, you take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.” 

-

You reach Mos Pelgo sometime before dawn. 

A familiar figure stands on the sandstone landing leading up into the cantina, missing his typical battered outwear - you must have woken him up, the noise of the bike that is, so it doesn’t surprise you that he had gone immediately outside to investigate, his illuminated silhouette a muscle-twitch away from retrieving the blaster at his hip. Boba parks a few feet away from the platform, parallel to the bar. Getting off first, you’re eager to intercept the tense conversation you’re aware must be coming, signaling to Cobb that it’s only you. 

“I know it’s been awhile, but I didn’t think you’d be mad enough to shoot me…” You’re nervous idea of a joke to hopefully forgive your extended absence. With Cobb quite literally one of your only friends, it wouldn’t be surprising if he was annoyed with you for disappearing the way you did, but in your defense: you’ve had a challenging couple of nights.

Boba comes to stand behind you and his presence is like a hot breath at the back of your neck. There’s an awkward moment during which you feel yourself and this random person you’ve brought with you to be subjected to the Marshall’s incredulous scrutiny: his head dipping as he takes in your salt-streaked face and disheveled robes. Then, to your relief, he speaks. 

Cobb says your name and visibly relaxes, stepping down to greet you. “Worried would be a better word. Who’s your friend?” 

“This is Boba. And before you ask, I don’t have the energy to explain it all to you, but I promise I will. Something happened and we need a place to stay tonight. You’re the only person I know that would help.” 

He glances uneasily at the other man from over your shoulder. “You alright?” 

“No-I-” Maker, you cannot cry again. “We’re fine. I’m fine. Patch is uh…if you could please just help us now and ask questions later, I’d appreciate it.” 

He nods slowly, then looks at Boba with more purpose. “Cobb Vanth, Sheriff of Mos Pelgo.” 

They shake hands. You know both men well enough now to see the gesture for what it is - a curbing of suspicion for your sake. 

“We don’t have much, but there’s an old mining barracks that’s been converted into somethin’ like a motel. I’ll speak to the woman working the front desk, see what I can do for you.” 

“You have my thanks.” 

“Sure. Last thing I want ta’ do is give my town a reputation for bein’ inhospitable.” 

Another joke. Neither of you laugh. You grin politely, but that’s alright. It wasn’t what he was looking for. 

The woman working the front desk is someone you recognize from your previous visits as also working in Pelgo’s only general store as a clerk. You’ve spoken with her once, twice at best. Her little girls are cute. Four and five respectively too young for school and you remember an instance of them dancing around her legs while she carried a coarseweave sack bulging with dehydrated fruits and vegetables to a shelf opposite the room when suddenly it had burst - wrinkled slices of jorgan and starfruit hitting the floor like pelts of rain on a roof. Such a sudden eruption had everyone, including you, hushed into silence. Instead of getting angry they had distracted her, she simply grinned. It’s a shame this is how she has to spend her nights. 

She and Cobb speak to each other briefly before she looks down at her ledger, then points. You hear him thank her before returning to where you and Boba stand near the entrance. 

“There’re two rooms available just at the end of the hall. You can’t miss ‘em. No keycodes or anythin’ like that either, so don’t worry about getting locked out.” 

“Thank you, Cobb.” 

“Course.” He answers, low and sincere and with just enough bittersweet-ness to make you feel sorry. “We’ll take a look at the little guy tomorrow. I know someone around here that might be able to fix him if the damage ain’t too severe. You have anymore problems, you come directly to me.” 

“Yeah, okay.” You agree, smiling weakly. “Goodnight.” 

“Night…” The Marshall echoes, watches your retreating back.

An undefinable emotion swells in your chest to the point of bursting as you travel down the narrow hallway leading to the last of the six rooms that make up the motel. It only makes sense that you’d be in separate spaces - Boba would rightfully want a private area to decompress. You want that too, but you had thought that the moments you shared, as tiny and maybe as meaningless as they were, would have at least amounted up to something that would make continuing to share a space seem a bit more natural than how abnormal it feels to have more than two or three steps of distance between you. It doesn’t feel right. Boba says nothing as he goes inside. 

You’re about to follow suit when Cobb calls out your name, asking you to wait, jogging up the hallway now that you’re alone. 

“What?” You know exactly what. 

“Look, I’m not trying to stick my nose into your business…but I’m a believer in honesty. You don’t have to give me all the details or explain to me who this man is to you, I just need to know that you’re safe.” 

“So much has happened, Cobb…” 

In the corner there’s a damp spot where the replastered wall hasn’t dried properly, blotchy and cracked left over from the last krayt dragon attack. You look at it now to give yourself time to think about whether or not you want to continue, if it’s worth retelling, and in your periphery you can see his hand rising as if he’s about to touch you, his fingers ghosting over the hair at your temples. You turn your head to look at him. His arm falls to his side. 

“But I’m safe. And if it weren’t for Boba, I wouldn’t be. I appreciate the concern. I’m okay. You know I’d tell you if I wasn’t. This shouldn’t-” Gods, how do you break up with a person you’re not even with? Surely it should be easier than this. 

“What happened between us…I’m sorry.” 

His chuckle turns your cheek hot. “I get it. I’m made of tougher parts than you think, contrary to popular belief. You’re alright, kid. I knew what this was from the start. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. Nothin’ can change that.” 

There’s a dull thud of something being forcefully struck the next door over, as if the end of a cane were being used slammed into the permacrete. The ceiling rains dust as a muffled elderly sounding voice complains to _whoever is in the kriffing hallway to keep their mouths shut, some people are trying to sleep-_

You both turn away, sharing a look and hiding sneaky smiles. His drops almost the same moment yours does. 

“I think I’m gonna shower now and go to bed…” 

“Sure. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Okay. See you…” 

You turn away as Cobb retreats back towards the front desk and you’re left staring at your own door’s entry panel before you have the presence of mind to go inside, rubbing the heels of your hands into your eyes in an ardent attempt to keep the sting in them at bay. 

-

After your shower, you sink into your chair by the viewport and find that you cannot get back up again. After hours of straddling a vehicle hurtling through open desert, it is strange to have a support behind your back and to be able to swing your legs freely without worrying the toe of your boot would catch a rock in the sand. You can still feel the measured swaying motion of the speeder in your limbs, and the roar of wind blowing through the cool air is in your ears. Your face, for as well as you scrubbed it, still feels covered in granules and a day’s worth of sweat. 

The feeling of being somewhere pleasant enough to relax brings back the terror you had felt yesterday evening. The sensations are still present, unprocessed, in your mind - not yet absorbed as memory. You see once again the blinding red beam of blaster fire, so sure of its aim in contempt of its accidental firing that it was as if it had been so certain of hitting it that the spire had already been falling. You see the vaporator wrench, creak, then plummet. You remember your panic in reaching for Patch and it makes you aware of the numbing horror that would have accompanied hearing him squeak and beep in confusion. The imbrication of these images creates a dismaying mosaic so vivid that your hands begin to shake and now, with Boba in the room across the hall, the experience seems even more upsetting than it had been at the time. 

Forcing yourself to sit up, you look out the window. Only one moon is visible tonight, partially hidden behind a sheer curtain of clouds - not much meaning in the way of rain, but if you were still on your farm you’d be glad to see them. The next day’s harvest would be a good one. You can’t see much except the outlines of buildings lining the street opposite to your lodgings. A town hall. A few dome shaped homes. And beyond that a dappled emptiness, grains of sand pushed softly over one another by an invisible force. 

There’s a rapping at your door, followed by Boba’s voice. For some reason, you had been expecting Cobb again. 

You press a button and it opens to reveal Boba standing there looking the same as he had earlier but cleaner. You’re suddenly self conscious about your wet hair. “Hi.” 

“May I come in?” 

You say nothing as you step aside, then head further into the room. The accommodations are nothing fancy. You haven’t paid much attention to it’s amenities focused on other things, glad that although as bare as it is in its appearance, it has the standard items needed for a comfortable night’s sleep. The floor has been scrubbed as well. 

He stands in the middle of the room, his hands folded in front of him. You go to fluff the single pillow at the top of the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better. I felt gross, so it was good to take a shower. And it’ll be good not having to sleep at a table tonight.” You laugh only because it’s tragically funny. Boba doesn’t seem to share your mirth. 

You stop and set the cushion down, wishing you had more to do with your fidgeting hands. “Really, I’m fine. I should be asking how you’re feeling. I know today must’ve been hard on your body.” 

“We should talk.” 

Scary and a bit ominous, you nod. “Oh. Okay. About what?” 

“I want to discuss your friend, The Sheriff.” 

You furrow your brows together unable to connect the dots. “What about him?” 

“What is your relationship to him?” 

“Stars, Boba. Is that what you’re trying to keep me up for?” 

“I am not unfamiliar with the way a man can look at a woman. I ask only because I need to know what his intentions with you are if we are to continue looking for my armor and ship together.” 

Your pulse quickens. “Why? What does it matter?” 

“My thoughts have changed. I would not put you so needlessly at risk if you are capable of staying here.” 

A logical thought, if not the best course for you both. You’d be little more than a hindrance to him and for as much as you dislike having him fret over you now, the feeling would only grow exponentially given how useless you proved yourself to be with a blaster and in a fight. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened because you were foolish and he needed to protect you. He’d be much better off on this journey alone. 

“I would have to talk to him about it…they’re stretched pretty thin as it is, but I know Cobb won’t turn down someone in need of his help, even if it is another mouth to feed. Is that what you want?” 

“It is what’s best.” 

“We’re taking Patch somewhere to get repaired tomorrow. I’ll bring it up then.” 

“Good. I will make an attempt to track down nearby Jawa villages in the meantime.” 

You nod, unsure what else there is to say, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from saying what you know is hidden behind your stunned resignation if you just allowed yourself to prod at it. 

“You should uh…change your bandages, if you haven’t already. Here, I still have some-” You go to your bag and fish out the container of your mother’s balm. “It should help with the itching. I know they must be irritating as they heal.” 

Your fingers touch as he takes it from you and you suppress the way you want to jump at the contact. “Thank you. Sleep well.” 

“Sure. You too, Boba.” 

“I’ll take my leave.” 

-

“Why do you call me that?” 

Early the next morning, you await Cobb at the cantina. Boba, as he said, has acquired a map and is currently studying it standing at your left. It is just the right amount of busy to have you brave enough to ask. After your conversation last night, you spent a shameful amount of time staring at the ceiling, mulling over how to react- more specifically, if it was worth being upset about it at all given the brevity of your relationship with the bounty hunter. But emotions are tricky. And soon they’ll probably become a thing you didn’t have the chance to tell him and turn into something you’re stuck harboring with no resolution for the foreseeable future. 

So you’ve chosen to not linger on them at all. 

The conversation of others and the spike of occasional laughter provides ample enough cover for you to feasibly retrieve your words if you regret saying them, excusing your show of daringness as something he had just misheard. It doesn’t help that the bartender has been steadily passing you shots of spotchtka, each sip adding a bit more to your courage. 

Boba hums to signal that he’s listening, and does not look up from the map he has unfolded and flattened in front of him. From the looks of it, he’s somewhere in the Dune Sea. “Call you what?” 

“Little one.” You clarify voice lilting at the end, finding that your weight is shifting on the bar stool towards him as if launched by a flirtatious impulse you had no idea was in you, your body inclining in what would in your typical state of manner have flustered you beyond comparison. Aware that you’re giving off compromising airs, you quickly neutralize it before he notices, suddenly very interested in your empty glass. 

The first time he used it you assumed you had heard him wrong, or if not, it had been a slip of his tongue never to be repeated again. Little one isn’t the most common nickname, but perhaps in the endless vast of things you do not know about him, he had called someone that once, and had thus used it with you on accident. Then he said it a second time, and you know what they say about patterns… 

He pauses as if contemplating. “I had not thought about it. Do you wish for me to stop?” 

He appears so serious about it that you nearly flail in your panic. Recovering, you shake your head, drumming your fingers against the bar top. 

“No! No, I wasn’t-I don’t mind it at all. I’m just curious.” 

There’s a tense pause. It isn’t a long one but it’s enough to have you holding your breath. 

“It’s a term of endearment in Mando’a. I say it in basic so you understand that when I use it, I am not insulting you.” A smile is in his voice. He isn’t lying. The idea that he’d be secretly calling you names is a comical idea though. 

It’s a good enough explanation, if not one that leaves you more curious than before. You’re no stranger to using affectionate pet names - more than once you’ve caught yourself in the beginnings of accidentally addressing him with one, so familiar with speaking to Patch that once you had grown comfortable enough to do the same around Boba, the names nearly seemed to slip out. That’s the thing, though. You have no idea if he’s simply comfortable or if there is a deeper meaning to his use of language - a bit of context that you’re missing that’s key to understanding how he feels about you. 

“Can you teach me how to say it?” 

“Ad’ika.” 

“Ad-Dee-Kah.” You repeat, probably with more emphasis than needed, but it makes him chuckle so you aren’t embarrassed by the foreignness of the syllables in your mouth. 

“Very good. Better than I had been when I was first learning.” 

You don’t believe that for a second, smiling anyway. “It’s pretty.” 

Boba nods. “Like many things.” 

Oh? You physically have to keep from inhaling sharply. No bad feelings, you have to remind yourself. Don’t dawdle on it.

“Is it strange not speaking it often?” 

He starts to fold the map. “No. As a child, Huttese served my father and I well enough, as did the Galactic Standard. The language of business, we had called it. It wasn’t until I was older that he taught me his tongue. We spoke it rarely, and never to anyone else aside from another.” 

Intimate, but how lonely. 

“ _His_ language?” 

“I am not from Mandalore, nor do I claim to be. I answer to a higher law. I could explain it better with my armor, but seeing as it had been picked off my body by scavengers and is now missing, an explanation will have to wait.” 

The more peeks you get of his life, the less it becomes defined to you. It seems that every tidbit or off-hand comment is something that holds the possibility of opening up into a thousand other things like the inside of a flower waiting to bloom. 

“Huh. Armor like that?” You point. “You know, if you asked nicely Cobb would let you borrow his or at least he’d rent it to you. Maybe even give you a discounted price-“ 

Cobb, standing in the entryway, studying the room. 

“That’s _my_ armor.” 

“Woah, wait-“ 

This can’t be good.


	6. Chapter 6

Boba has gone very, very still. 

And you - clear headed expert mediator that you are with all your outstanding people skills. 

Well, you just keep talking. 

“I was just kidding. About the last thing I said, but maybe about all of it now. Although we weren’t really joking around. You were teaching me your language. We were kind of having a moment. Which, hey, I think we should get back to. Actually, we shouldn’t I change my mind. Wait - what do you mean _your_ armor?” 

Cobb stops. Normally the presence of their sheriff isn’t enough to warrant the sort of hush that befalls the cantina the way it does now. He’s a frequent visitor, which has rubbed off the polish of seeing him appear in public and isn’t any more revered by the residents of Freetown than the bartender is on a Saturday night. They look to him for guidance for having saved them, sure, but he is far from divine. What quiets them now is this newcomer - scarred and now angry looking - who rolled in late last night with the quiet mechanic they know must have something going on that involves trouble and hasn’t proven himself trustworthy yet, daring to cause a scene unwarranted in all outward appearances. 

You get their hesitation. The last set of strangers who moseyed (moseyed is a nicer word, you prefer it to laying siege) up main street were a bunch of raiders sent by a mining conglomerate that killed their family members and enslaved the rest. Tuskens and Jawas are also an ongoing problem, so understandably, those wounds haven’t blistered yet. Your comprehension of their ideology doesn’t mean you’re sympathetic. Empathetic, yeah, and sensitive - it took your fair share of convincing to get even a smile from someone in passing - but not particularly pleased that they’d rather run the next ‘dissenter’ out of town rather than extend a welcoming hand. Which is why, watching heads turn in your direction, there’s a few ways this can go: 

Boba and Cobb will talk. There will be no talking and Boba will shoot Cobb and/or Vice Versa. Or you’ll be run out of town by an angry mob before the first or second option has a chance to happen. 

The situation hasn’t delineated itself enough for you to accurately predict which one is more likely to happen, but as of right now it looks like all three. The antecedent and it’s succeeding hypothesis occurring simultaneously. The third transpiring last. Maker, you just wanted to fix your droid. 

“Hey, now. Take it easy. What are we talkin’ about?” Cobb placates and his appearance at first provides no cause for any misgivings. The Sheriff has a level head on his shoulders. He isn’t quick to make snap judgements. Nor is he ineffectual at assessing situations and deescalating them. At least, that’s what you’ve seen of the way he handles his citizen’s business. You’ve heard stories of his temper after encountering sand people, but you trust him just as much as you trust Boba. If there’s a way to resolve this civilly, without anymore bloodshed than this town has seen already, he’ll do it. 

That is until his right hand slowly creeps to the holster tucked snugly against his hip. 

The sight of the weapon makes you cognizant that as of yesterday, Boba has his own. A faulty piece of bantha fodder that would still miss a target even if it were pressed against its barrel. It wouldn’t matter who’s quickest on the draw. If his shot doesn’t land, Cobb’s will. 

“Where did you get that armor?” He hasn’t raised his voice. You aren’t surprised. From what you’ve been able to piece together about him, Boba isn’t the type of man to shout in order to prove that he’s dangerous or to make others think that he is; that doesn’t worry you. It’s the tone he’s taken. The very same he had spoken to Tinian and Kyp with only a few hours ago. Righteous. Dignified. Angry. 

“Should this be a discussion we have in here?” The younger man’s eyes shift uneasily across the patrons who have been watching without a semblance of discretion. The Weequay proprietor is even staring and he’s subjectively one of the townsfolk closest to Cobb. He should know better than to feed into the heightened sense of urgent tension quickly overtaking the room, yet he remains cemented to his spot at the center of the bar somewhere between anxious and invested, a tankard in one hand and a dirty cloth in the other. The jug of spotchka is nearly bioluminescent where it catches the light on the counter untouched.

“That depends on what you choose to do next, Sheriff.” He wouldn’t hesitate. He’d have no reason aside from upsetting you to spare Cobb’s life if he refuses to concede. There is no loyalty. That thought hangs like a swinging axe above your head. 

The odds of Cobb having Boba’s armor of all people is a probability that feels as if it should have been infinitesimally low. The same can be said for the chances that out of anywhere on this insufferable sithpit planet the bounty hunter could have ended up, it was in your backyard he had decided to involuntarily call it quits. Same goes for the timing of your cousin. You aren’t sure if you believe in coincidences. It’s kind of weird that as of right now you function basically in the same way the armor does in connecting them. On the other hand, you don’t like thinking that everything must happen for a reason discounting the universe isn’t just a bag full of random circumstances. It’s only comforting when the good things happen, and devastating when applied to the bad. This week has surely been testing your faith in the galaxy, yet underneath all the discord there seems to be an undercurrent of harmony. An orderliness of links you haven’t figured out how to make make sense. 

You remembered the word he used to describe it at the fire that one night while in bed. The force. An intimidating word. It had been your first time hearing of the concept, but you were too shy to ask for him to elaborate, afraid it would ruin the moment by making it too clinical, and haven’t had the opportunity to bring it up again. You aren’t positive that’s indeed how it works. Boba hadn’t gone into much detail, simply eluded that it couples - or can couple - people together as it has he and Jango. And in the disinterest of making yourself look stupid, you don’t consider that perhaps it’s the same thing existing between you and the mercenary now. 

Boba must see the defensive stance Cobb has taken. He surprises you by folding his hands together. Like many things, you haven’t figured out whether the act is supposed to be pacifying or a warning. 

“That’s my armor. It does not belong to you. I would like it back.” 

You’re unsure what he would want with a few rusted pieces of durasteel, or why he could possibly be having such a strong reaction to armor that is chipping and in need of a new coat of paint until you remember that he had mentioned it belonging to his father. A small detail, one easily forgotten with the chaos of the past few days, but a significant one nonetheless. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know how valuable it is or the material it’s made of and the kind of protection it provides - nearly indestructible by all standards; by trial of lightsabers, blaster fire, and sarlacc stomach acid more specifically. It’s enough to know there’s a sentimental attachment to it to provide you with an adequate case, hoping it’ll convince the Marshall into giving it up without any clauses attached. 

“It’s his, Cobb. I wouldn’t tell you otherwise.” 

He looks at you. He shifts his weight. His hands move to the front of his bandolier. 

“I’ve never met a real Mandalorian. Heard plenty of stories. How can I be sure this really belongs to you and you’re not just tryin’ to pull my leg.” A wise enough question. 

You immediately frown and look to him with eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You think I’d trick you?” 

Cobb stays silent. He doesn’t have to say it for his answer to be no. If and when you talk about this later, he’ll say he was covering all his bases. 

“I am not a Mandalorian. My name is Boba Fett. If you allow me to show you, I can prove that the armor is rightfully mine.” 

Boba takes a step closer to Cobb and the room stretches like a bowstring. What happens when they get within arms distance of each other will determine whether it’ll have released a killing blow or gone lax. 

Boba simply takes a hold of Cobb’s left wrist. He presses a button, then suddenly an orange and fuzzy hologram appears showcasing a series of characters you can’t decipher. 

“What the gauntlet is showing you is my chain code. It is made up of several numbers and written in Mando’a script. The last four digits signify age. No one would know to access it unless they knew it was there. You see, 0044. This is my father, Jango Fett. And this is me, Boba Fett. Our identification markers have been encrypted in this armor for twenty-five years. The beskar rightfully belongs to me.” 

“I suppose it does, stranger.” Your friend begins to shed himself of the beskar. The first to be removed are the gauntlets, followed by the chest plate and shin pads. He stops when he gets to the last piece. “Wouldn’t be too forward of me to assume you’ll be wantin’ this back too?” 

He gestures to the jetpack secured to his back. 

“All of it.” Boba answers, busying himself with putting it on. 

Cobb nods and sets it down on the saloon table carefully. “Worth a shot. Not sure how I’ll go defendin’ the town without this second skin, but-“ His voice pitches as he reaches for the bottle of alcohol. “That’s a problem for another day.” 

“I told him about the dragon.” You offer, hoping it’ll ease the sting of having to strip himself of his aegis in front of almost all his people. “We’d be willing to help.”

“I ever tell you what incredible timing you have, little lady?” 

If Boba’s mind has changed, he doesn’t voice it, so you take his silence as signifying this is something that’s still happening. He appears content enough now that he has checked one item off his list, if not somewhat annoyed that he hasn’t had the chance to clear nor repair it yet, and that someone else had copped the armor and was wearing it themselves while he was too busy dying; the only benefit of this being that it hadn’t ended up buried by sand never to be found again. 

“I’m just tired of having to solder bikes back together. I want at least some inconsistency in my work.” 

Cobb chuckles, downing his shot. He scrunches his face, then sets the cup down. “Well, I’m sure that krayt dragon brings enough excitement to last all of us a couple of lifetimes.” 

He’s right. Nilima’s husband, the woman who spends her nights working the motel’s front desk, told you this morning that her husband has only just finished repairing the crack that split one of the walls in their living room from an attack that happened weeks ago. 

This prompts the bounty hunter to speak. “Tell me about this dragon.” 

The other man sighs, weary and exhausted. “Other than that it’s a menace, we know that it’s big - big enough to go liftin’ up floorboards and make entire buildings shake. And destructive. Everyone has their grievances, but it’s the miners and farmers who are the most concerned. Just yesterday morning we lost another bantha along with some equipment, our third in two days. At this rate, we’ll either starve to death or be crushed by rubble before we can, barring it doesn’t eat any of us first.” 

“Why haven’t you made an attempt to kill it yourselves? What is the condition of your armament?” 

“Standard for a town like this. Nothing near enough to be dangerous to anything’ aside from people. The Mining Collective kindly left us with a few more advanced means of protection, but goin’ after that beast with it would only be a waste of ammo and a foolish risk of my people’s lives. Doubt any of it would even scratch it’s skin.” 

“That armor-” Cobb points to it, continuing. “Does well enough against bandits and sand people, but against a terror like this, it isn’t enough for me to take on alone. Help me kill it and Mos Pelgo will be in your debt. Any assistance you need, you’ll get, along with our appreciation.” 

“With me, this armor is the most dangerous piece of equipment in the galaxy. I will help you and your town, Cobb Vanth. In exchange, I ask that you take good care of the girl and her companion. Ensure that she remains safe.” 

“Boba-” You start to protest. When he had come into your room last night you thought that when he left, the conversation had been tabled for a later time, not that a ruling had already been made. He hadn’t even given you the chance to talk to Cobb about it like you had planned. Perhaps then you would have been able to convince your friend that staying here wouldn’t be good for you; not only because of what happened but also because of your growing feelings for Boba, but it’s clear now that bringing up the idea of you staying was simply a formality so that when he leaves you behind, it doesn’t come as a surprise. 

The Sheriff’s eyes linger on you for a few seconds, unsure but hesitant to strike down a deal as golden as this when the conditions his counterpart is asking for are ones that he would make willingly and has been guaranteeing since meeting you all those years ago. His decision merely rests heavily on whether or not he wants to ignore that you should have a say in this. 

“This doesn’t sound like something she wants.” 

“It is non-negotiable. I will take down the dragon as promised to ensure the safety of this town, but when this is over she will not be leaving with me.” 

Moving to stand between them, you’re anxious to make yourself heard. 

“Wait, we were supposed to talk about this. Or-or I was supposed to talk to Cobb, then we were supposed to talk about this. This isn’t fair. I should be able to make my own decisions.” 

Boba turns to you and there’s something in his expression that’s different. A seriousness that makes your stomach drop, amplified by the armor. You can’t tell if he’s using it to hide however he truly feels or if this really is how adamant he is about you parting ways, just that the result is the same. You feel like you’re going to be sick with your own distraught. 

“We had. In your quarters last night, I told you it was for the best. Nothing has changed.” 

That’s it, then. You are made of tenderness and he is full of sharp glass. You were never meant to be in his life and he was made to never fit properly in yours without having to drive each sharp edge into the delicate parameters of your existence. Knowing what he knows is what makes this make sense. You just don’t realize it yet that you’ve been stabbed. 

“Stars, you’re actually serious.” Your ability to speak is swiftly being squashed by the tight ball growing in your throat, yet you refuse to roll over quietly. “I cannot believe this.” 

“There are things you do not understand and things that I cannot tell you. About myself and about my life. You have done far more for me than I could ever possibly repay, which is why I cannot in good conscience take you with me and put your life so needlessly at risk.” 

You blink. Then have to look away sharply, thinking for a second that you had seen something like pity in his face. “But…repayment was never necessary. I just want to help you.” 

“And look at what it got you.” He points out, not unkindly. “Your desire won’t keep yourself from getting killed. I’ve seen people killed for less.” 

All of it had meant nothing. Or rather, it probably had just not what you had wanted it to mean. These odds have always been so improbable, so negligible, so kriffing _slim_ that…

That it was just a fluke. 

An accident. A weird cosmic switch-up. And this is it repairing itself, returning everything to its proper timeline, reshuffling the cards. Neutral to the pain the adjustments are inflicting on the poor, insignificant beings stuck living in it. 

“That’s it?” 

Cobb says your name softly from behind your back, but you brush him off and you ignore it. “That’s all you have to say. _I’ve seen people killed for less._ What does that even mean?” 

Your face is getting hot. Soon, because you cannot seem to keep yourself from doing this, you’ll begin to cry. You’re determined not to, despite how warranted. They won’t do you any good. The mortifying tears of a girl who’s got a stupid crush. 

Boba doesn’t answer. He simply turns back to Cobb after a few moments of looking at you. “Tell your people I will need their assistance when the time comes.” 

Cobb’s gaze meets Boba’s and he nods slowly in agreement, but his eyes are quick to land on you again. 

You scoff and stare down at the toe of your boots, chewing on the inside of your cheek to keep it from wobbling. 

Boba goes to exit the cantina, not before reminding.

“Check on your droid, little one. He will be waiting.


	7. Chapter 7

[Originally posted by burning-chi-thunderfoot](https://tmblr.co/Z9_KpcZAHBN0aa00)

“You were right to ask…” 

You fall in step beside each other as you exit the cantina. You’ve recovered - and now only tremors remain of Boba’s dismissal. Set with a new more pressing course of action, you’re finding it easier to talk; that or maybe it’s easier because the bounty hunter is no longer around to hear the waver in your voice, you don’t know. Cobb doesn’t say anything for a minute. 

“I was right askin’ what exactly?” He is careful recently not to come to conclusions about anything that has to do with you, including what you might mean when you say things like he’s right about a situation that’s only been painful for all parties involved, fully aware you must feel like you exist on some gyroscope around him given what the last twelve hours has done both to your relationship and to its future. 

“About him - Boba, I mean. Last night when you stopped me in the hall. You were right.” 

It should make him feel good, but it doesn’t. It may have been weird and unexpected, your arrival with a man he’s never met and your refusal to explain fully what’s going on, and it was, so normally he’d feel somewhat victorious in his ability to foresee the disaster headed your way like his being right would bring you any closer, but all he feels now is contrite, and remorseful that he hadn’t been wrong; as a result he remains quiet as if waiting for you to continue, not sure if he should prompt you into explaining or be patient while you gain enough courage on your own to keep going. 

“I feel like I owe you an apology. It was good that you got defensive and asked questions. Things…they just happened so quick. He’d have died if it weren’t for me and I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for him and I thought that it somehow made us…I don’t know, different? I guess? Connected?” 

That word again. You wish you could grind it into nothing and brush it away out of existence. All of these bonds, all of these links to dead people and to lost, destroyed planets, and not one of them has ever ended well for you. You’re sure you’d have been better off never knowing of the word or its meaning at all. It would have saved you immeasurable amounts of heartbreak. 

The sound of hammering and the quiet crunch of your footsteps fills the lapses in your speech as you walk with Cobb down the path to the repair shop. A woman is joining pieces of metal together near the porch. The flash of her welding equipment is nothing against the sun in the sand. Boba is nowhere in sight. “But I was being stupid. He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him and it isn’t his fault that I made assumptions, it just- it hurts, you know? It hurts and I guess it took something like this for me to get it straight.” 

A lesson you should have learned a long time ago, but never have. For all your wondering, you could never figure out why the inhabitants of this world could be so callus. It turns out that the world is bigger and more complicated than you know and that each step you could take in beginning to learn it would only be like treading choppy waters hoping you’ll be one of the lucky ones fortunate enough to find dry land. It was only a matter of time before it was your turn to discover that you aren’t and never have been. 

Cobb keeps his voice low and urgent, is quick to try to reel you back in before you harden yourself completely because this isn’t like you. “You have a good heart, kid. That’s rare on any planet, but it’s especially lacking on this one. It’s gonna hurt when other people don’t have the same capacity for carin’ as you do.” 

You wish that were true and that you could say Boba is some heartless monster of a man who took advantage of your kindness like the rest of them, but he isn’t. He hasn’t ever neighbored being someone you’d consider in such a way. Even now, having hurt your feelings and wounded your pride, his motives in leaving you in Mos Pelgo only extend marginally into his own self-interest and remain largely in part by his altruistic desire to keep you safe; aware that bringing you along would only endanger your life. A man who didn’t desire to keep you out of harm’s way wouldn’t have bothered with helping you, let alone have taken the time to explain why he no longer can. He respects you. Still does. Somehow that’s managed to be an issue and make all of this that much worse. 

“The problem is that I think he does…he wouldn’t have helped me with the farm and getting Patch here if he didn’t. I just thought he cared the same way I do - did. I found out I was wrong.” You’ve stopped crying. Still, you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand out of habit. The small stand is coming into view and you don’t want to look a mess - or maybe you do to garner some pity for your droid, you don’t know. “Anyway, I just thought I’d tell you that. It wasn’t right of me to spring this all on you and expect you to be okay with it, so I’m sorry. About all of it. About the armor and the mess I seem to keep making.” 

It’s strange you almost don’t know how to speak to him - each sentence sounding stilted and artificially deliberate, like you’re trying to maintain a matter-of-fact pretense to disguise that you aren’t sure where you lie with him anymore. Almost as in keeping things pragmatic, you’ll reduce the risk of losing him, too. 

The Sheriff only nods. 

“I appreciate it, but you know you don’t have to apologize for a thing. I wasn’t just blowin’ hot air out of my nose when I told you that if you ever needed somethin’ to come find me. But…you still haven’t said what happened. Between you and him…why you ended up comin’ down here in the first place. It’s made helpin’ you harder.” 

“And you still haven’t told me how you ended up with the armor. Or that you stole it from someone else.” You volley back, unnecessarily sharp. You hadn’t realized how quickly the beskar would become a point of contention between you two. You recognize your misplaced animosity and immediately soften, remorseful. There’s no reason for there to be bad blood between you and Cobb. He hadn’t known. You won’t let Boba ruin the one good thing you have left. 

“I didn’t _steal_ anythin.’ You didn’t ask. Neither did he.” Cobb reminds, not ungentle yet adjacent to something that might be irritation. It must feel weird to be walking around without it on. He’s getting some looks. Surely they saw the bounty hunter step outside clad in the Sheriff’s armor and are in the process of talking among themselves about it speculating, but they otherwise remain in the thick of rebuilding. It’ll come up in the next town hall meeting though, you’re sure of it. Those that had been in the cantina during the exchange are sure to have the most to say.

“He hasn’t told me a lot.” You start quietly. “Actually, I’m positive he’s told me as little as possible. You know about as much as I do except that he doesn’t care for eggs.” What good that anecdote is proving to be in that it’s pointless knowing it at all. “I never worked up the courage to ask what he was doing before the sarlacc got him or how he survived, then with the farm getting attacked and losing Patch and coming here it all just…it didn’t seem to matter. He made it clear that it’s none of my business, anyway.” 

The Marshal is mute for a long moment. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he might be dropping the topic entirely since you can’t tell him anything new, but you can tell from the way he rubs his hand over his mouth that he’s got something to say and just isn’t sure he wants to say it. 

You roll your lips between your teeth, then. “What…?”

“It sounds to me like he’s hiding something.” 

His accusation immediately puts you on the defensive. You try not to let it embarrass you this time. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” Cobb admits. “But you don’t go through all that with a person and stay quiet about what brought you to ‘em. There’s somethin’ he doesn’t want you finding out.” 

“Or maybe we’ve only known each other four days.” Your attention remains on walking, but it is evident from the way your shoulders stiffen you don’t like what you’ve heard. 

Your intense desire to protect Boba is proving to be a double edged sword. With every sharp comment, a reminder that he’s leaving you here arrives to instantly abridge it. You can’t keep making excuses as if saying them will make them true and explain why after nursing him back to health, Boba hasn’t bothered giving you a modicum of information you didn’t have to prod at him for first. The tattoos. His father’s name. All brought up by you. Yet you can’t seem to keep yourself from doing it. 

Cobb doesn’t have to say anything for you to know that you shouldn’t have said that. He stops you in front of the shop’s beat-up front counter - a rusted, dirty thing facing the street breached by a wall full of random parts - the wild-eyed and shrewd mechanic missing, taking the moment before the technician appears from somewhere in the back to place his hands on your shoulder and speak to you seriously. “Think about it. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he might be doin’ you a favor.” 

Before you can say anything, he’s turning towards the shop owner who’s just shuffled into sight; each drag of the owner’s feet creating a sort of whooshing sound against the sandstone flooring of his tiny lean-to, clearly in no rush to greet his would-be customers. You aren’t disappointed to be rid of the conversation. It would be wise to ask him what exactly he means, but this is something else to focus on rather than the elusive background of a man you wish you could hate and the wedge it’s driving between you and one of your only friends. 

The technician’s hands are gnarled and covered in grease and do not inspire the hope you thought they would upon seeing him. Far less familiar with him than you are the other townsfolk, Cobb had done the talking while you sat with Boba and had gone over the map. He looks at you both now from underneath eyebrows withered and heavy with age. “Returning for the droid?” 

“Yes.” You say immediately, gaze passing behind him and into the store as if you’d be able to see Patch behind such a chaotic assemblage of vaporator components and tools. “How is he? Was the damage too extensive? Can I look at him myself?” 

“Full of questions, this one is…” He declares, the comment clearly directed to Cobb who merely smiles, but it isn’t nearly half as friendly or polite as he was probably hoping it would come across. You shoot him a silent look of startled disbelief. 

“I think you should answer them, then.” 

The old man nods once, then a second and third time at the disapproval in the tone of his leader, muttering to himself only to finally look at you. 

“The robot is fine.” 

_Oh, thank the Maker._

That’s all you needed to hear, yet he continues speaking. 

“Troublesome little droid. Beeped at me until I threatened to tinker with his main processing unit and remove his speech apparatus. I had to replace the right photoreceptor and upgrade the wheels. The fissure in his shielding was easy enough to repair. I must admit, you kept him in better shape than I would have expected. After a good clean and a coat of fresh paint, I left him to charge. So to answer your question: he’s fine, if not traumatized by the experience.” 

The ancient mechanic grumbles about the details and payment as he wipes his hands on an equally dirty rag - ones you were sure to have been too clunky and graceless to have done any good that have saved the thing you care about most, but you’ve stopped listening to the specifics of his annoyance, bouncing slightly on your toes. 

Cobb’s amusement goes unnoticed too as you fight to curb the eagerness in your voice. “When can I see him?” 

“You can take him now. I have little interest in keeping him for myself. He’ll be as glad to be rid of me as I am of him.” He dismisses with a wave, punching numbers into a small hand held device built into the scarred counter. 

The Marshall starts to fish credits out of the satchel on his hip. He gestures inside with his chin. “Go. I’ll take care of this and meet you back at the cantina. We’ll discuss the long term and what we’re doin’ next after you’ve got your friend.” 

\- 

Patch hasn’t stopped talking. 

“It isn’t my fault that you woke up to a scary man in your face. He was fixing you.” 

A series of heated beeps you’re indescribably glad to hear. You have yet to set him down, which might be a secondary cause to his endless chatter - new wheels are an exciting upgrade and he wants to try them out - but you are reluctant to let him be anywhere other than as near to you as he can possibly get; wary of cloaked sinkholes in the sand or other insecure structures that might come crashing down. 

“I couldn’t be there because I was helping Boba. We’re in Mos Pelgo. We came here last night.” 

The suns are brighter as you step outside again. The morning stars higher up in the sky than they were forty five minutes ago. It’s no wonder the mechanic is constantly scrunching his face; the inside of the shop was about as dark as he could get away with without being unable to see at all. Only a handful of bloggin oil lamps and a large, meter tall spotlight guided you to the room Patch was being held. The rest was just guessing. The toes of your boots had come in contact with random objects more than once, sending something light and hollow clattering somewhere in the darkness and nearly incapacitating you, earning a sharp shout from the man still up front. 

Which is why with your eyes still adjusting, your expression pinched into a squint, you don’t see Boba coming. 

You collide with his chest hard enough for the impact to cause a forcible exhale from your lungs and kick into gear the instinct to tuck Patch away from the blow; your free hand flying out in a pitiful attempt to help you find your balance before you stumble backwards and onto your ass.

Boba apprehends you neatly by your elbow and left shoulder and it isn’t that he keeps you from falling that catches you off guard, it’s how quickly he lets go. His hands return to his belt once he’s sure that you’re no longer in danger of cracking your head, like he doesn’t want to touch you more than he absolutely must; the movement brief and direct. If it were anything besides that, it’s impossible to tell. His form is unreadable beneath the newly acquired beskar. You can’t decipher at all what he must be thinking. 

“Careful.” The helmet has changed his voice. It hasn’t made it different. He still sounds like himself, but more detached - distanced and ominous. If you had never met the man beneath it or known the tenderness he’s capable of, you’d be frightened. Part of you still might be anyway. He stands, faceless and ruthless and far more imposing than before, looking at you like he normally would except this time all you can think of is what he might be keeping from you instead of optimistically wondering if he mirrors your feelings for him. You shove away the thoughtless reminder having bloomed from your conversation with Cobb quickly, but have trouble finding a replacement for it. 

You don’t know what to say to him, surely looking at him in some undignified and gaping manner and can only adjust the robot in your arms so that he’s more comfortable to carry in want of doing anything else, unable to tell if he truly disapproved of your inattention or if his warning was in teasing. You’re at least more prepared, theoretically, for an exchange with him than you were earlier in the bar and in your room a few hours earlier. And you resolve suddenly to appear and speak composedly, lest you risk him discovering how awful he’s made you feel. Fortunately, he speaks before you do. 

“I am glad to see that your friend still lives.” 

Nodding dumbly, you agree. “Yeah, me too. He, uh, he got new wheels.” You lift Patch to show Boba. Patch swivels them back and forth, whistling. 

Boba chuckles. You’re not astonished by his politeness so much as you are that he’s choosing to continue engaging with you at all. He could have just as easily kept walking. Somehow he didn’t and still hasn’t and you haven’t either. That makes you nervous - fearful that he’s sticking around to work up to this big, final blow that’ll make his departure that much worse; news like he won’t be returning at all. Which, admittedly, is probably what’s implied by his leaving full stop. Uncovering any reason he’d have to return to Freetown after this is over would be a surprise. Still, the sound balloons your lungs and you have to hold your breath to keep from inhaling too much and too suddenly. 

“And a coat of fresh paint.” He adds, gesturing with his gloved pointer finger to the droid’s framework freshly made shiny and uniform with baby blue varnish. 

“And a coat of fresh paint.” You echo, looking at Patch as if you’re just noticing because it’s easier to play stupid than having to make guesswork as to where his eyes are lingering behind the dark t-shape visor, and whether or not his gaze is soft and reassuring or neutral and impassive. 

You keep talking. 

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” 

“My part of the agreement is not yet finished. There are many things we must do to prepare for this dragon.” He answers like it’s obvious. 

“Right, yeah. I know that. I just-” 

“Was expecting I’d be gone longer?” 

“Yeah.” 

It gets quiet for a moment. You draw a line in the sand with your boot. “Where did you go?” 

Boba sighs, his exhale weary and fuzzy as it passes through the helm. “The Sand People know these lands better than anyone. If we are to have a chance at defeating this beast, we must enlist their help. That’s where I went.” 

“The Raiders? But didn’t-” 

“Yes.” 

Cloaked figures murmuring to each other in the dark. You aren’t their biggest fan. Often, you’ve caught one or two of them trying to rip random pieces off your vaporators - cowardly and unwilling to venture more than three at a time to scavenge; but otherwise you tend to leave each other alone, only aware of their proximity when you see the silhouette of a single rider on the back of a bantha or the soft glow of their torches miles away in the horizon. You’ve heard the stories, though, through Cobb and the others. You also know by the way Boba reacted the day you found him that he doesn’t have a pleasant history with them either. If anyone has reason to be put out by their presence, it’s him, yet he seems in fine enough spirits. 

“I doubt they reacted well to seeing you.” 

“They reacted as I had expected. Once I explained I was not there to kill them, they were willing to cooperate.” 

“In exchange for what?” 

“Nothing. The dragon threatens them as it does Freetown. They benefit from killing it the same as we do. They are angry at Vanth - they say he steals their water and kills their people, but they will help us as partners.” 

“Oh.” You doubt it went as smoothly as he’s made it seem, but are hesitant to press for the actual details. 

“That’s good, then. Although, I’m not sure how well everyone else will take it. The last time the Sand People raided, we were devastated. People went hungry. The aquifers went down by half. They aren’t going to be eager to work with the same group that’s responsible for harming themselves and their family members. It’ll mean trouble trying to get them on board, but I suppose that’s something Cobb should handle.” 

“Speak to them with us. They’d listen to reason when it’s coming from you.” 

“I’m pretty sure they’d sooner see me isolated on the farm, never to return than they would listen to what I have to say. I did bring to town the man who took their Mayor’s armor from off his back. They see me and think trouble. Which, by the way, I’m sure they’re more than eager to air their grievances about after watching you almost get in a shoot-out with the man they look to for protection.” 

“Forget the armor. You have made connections with them haven’t you? In a way that Vanth’s status as their Sheriff has not allowed?” 

Although they don’t place Cobb on an altar and worship him as a god, there is a certain level of respect that shuts mouths. No one is afraid to share their thoughts or air their grievances, but it’s different discussing everyday issues with a peer than it would be having the same conversation with a liberator. Those discussions are always more intimate, more private, more telling. Hushed susurrations in the motel lobby with Nilima. Ceramic mugs of steaming cassius tea held between cold palms slowly being warmed. Standing in the darkened street semi-illuminated by the catina lights, the distant mooing of banthas somewhere far off, a girl only a few years younger than you confiding in you her desire to leave while stuck with nowhere to go. 

They trust you, finally. Still, you hesitate. Many of them are easily swayed. That might not be a good thing. 

“Sure, but I’m not - I wouldn’t even know what to say. You and Cobb are the ones with a plan.” 

“You only need to convince them.”

“That’s not gonna be easy.” 

“That is why I know you can do it.” 

The lightness his complement sets in your stomach is counteracted, then suffocated by the dread of having to subject yourself to the entire town when all you’d really like to do is lay down. 

“And if that doesn’t work?” 

“We will make it work.” 

“Stars, Boba…” 

Surely he must know that the breadth of his assertions has lost some of their weight after the disaster with your cousin. This whole conversation has been like a practice in improvising feelings that directly contradict the ones that are actually conjuring a storm in the center of your chest. It isn’t so much about this working or not working as it is the way he talks to you, like he has no idea how hard it is for you to face him, while he goes on either not caring or doing an excellent job of hiding his regard behind the mask. You had anticipated, at least, some awkward tension from his side, yet he appears perfectly content in doing everything as he normally would except for touching you. 

Burned hands covered in scar tissue. You might as well be torn from the same cloth of what had branded him the first time with the way he keeps his hands to himself. 

It’s painful but bearable. At least for now. 

“The Marshal will be gathering his people inside the bar tomorrow night. What you choose to do is for you to decide, but it is my hope that you’ll listen. Perhaps Patch here will ease their irritation.” 

Mentioned, Patch chirps - eager to have attention brought to his new upgrades. You aren’t as excited. 

“Yeah,” you murmur softly. “We’ll see.” 

\- 

It is late. The sky is flat and black. It would be unfortunate that if, on top of everything that’s happened, a sandstorm is looming, but the Maker is rarely on your side. The unsteady breeze swipes granules against the building; calm, careful, waiting. 

Sleep has never come easy, but the events of the last week have culminated into an insomnia you can’t shake; despite every trick you’ve been taught to invite drowsiness done and then done a second time. You can’t stop thinking about what you’ll say tomorrow, if you’ll say anything at all - what Boba and Cobb will say as well, and if the people will listen. They are stubborn, set in their old ways. It will be a challenge persuading them to overcome their conceptions and biases about the Raiders, despite how crucial it is that for this to work effectively, they must coordinate. If you can get Nilima to agree, she might be able to influence the others. However, there’s no way of telling until it happens. For now, it’s all you can do to cross your fingers and wish for the best. 

Across the room, nothing more than a dim light and a fuzzy shadow, your droid sleeps plugged into the wall. A big day he’s had and you’re more than relieved to have him back - not just because you love him, but also because his presence provides some normalcy to a situation that just - isn’t. A reminder and comfort of things that had been. 

_If only it were that easy_ , you think as you rise unsteadily to your feet from the bed, you wouldn’t be tired a day in your life. 

You blink to focus your vision and navigate the small room with the precision of someone unfamiliar with their surroundings, keeping quiet and biting your tongue as your knees collide with the - albeit sparse - furnishings on your way to the door. 

It glides open. You step out and it glides shut. You stare at the entry panel across from you, aware that somewhere behind it Boba resides doing something; sleeping, probably, or maybe staring up at the ceiling like you had been. He had liked the closeness, you’re sure of it. He’d never have let you freely touch him otherwise. Yet he withdraws and justifies it by insisting it’s for your safety. 

Wondering is daunting. Circular thoughts that start anywhere and go everywhere only to end nowhere are wastes of time. You can not, however, understand whether wanting more than an explanation from him would be too much to ask or if what happened yesterday and the night before were just extenuating circumstances. The consequence of high tensions with very little to resolve it aside from the consolations you could give each other; balms to wounds still aching. 

You turn away. 

His door opens. 

You stop. Look over your shoulder. Boba stands in the threshold previously blocked by durasteel and chrome. He looks back. No armor this time. No mask. 

Neither of you speak for a moment. Then. 

“Why are you awake?” 

You debate the merits of answering honestly then decide against it. “I think my body’s gotten used to the kitchen table.” 

“It is important that you rest.” 

“I could say the same for you.” 

“You could.” He agrees. 

“Why are you awake?” 

_His body has gotten used to your bed._

_His body has gotten used to you._

“It is rare that I sleep well.” 

You nod. You don’t have to meditate on why. Another moment’s silence. Then gently. “I know about the nightmares.” 

“They’re nothing.” 

“They bother you, keep you awake. That’s not nothing.” 

“It isn’t anything you should concern yourself with.” 

“You know, you’re kind of a hypocrite.” 

“I’m allowed to be.” 

“I don’t think that’s fair. You can’t just say you’re allowed to be and then suddenly you are.” 

“Is that not how hypocrisy works?” 

“I-” Momentarily tongue-tied by your frustration, you look down at the thin carpeting. “I was only trying to say that I get it…and that I’m here for you, even though you likely don’t want me to be. 

“The first night you had one.” You go on to continue. “I don’t think you remember, though, which is…good, I guess - for both of us. You were so hurt and - and in so much agony that I-” 

You hadn’t realized how extensive an effect that had on you until having to say it out loud. “The salve I gave you should help. I can give you my mother’s recipe before you leave if you’d like. Just promise that you’ll use it when you have to-” 

The end of your sentence diminishes into nothing when you look back up and notice how close he’s gotten. 

Inches from you. Close enough that if you inhaled, you’d touch him. 

“What are you doing?” You feel, suddenly, like a reed cut free from its roots. 

“I am nearing the age my father had been when he died.” 

You furrow your brows in confusion. Why is he saying this? 

“How old was he when he died?” 

“Forty-four.” 

“How old are you?” 

“I am forty-one.” 

“I don’t…I don’t think I understand.” 

Is he trying to imply that you’re too young for him, too naive and someone he doesn’t want. If so, you don’t get why he’s bringing this up now, or why he hasn’t before. Or why he’s invading your space breathing you in allowing himself to be breathed in, too. 

“What I mean to say is that I have lived a long life. In that time I have seen more death than I now care to remember; many of them brought about by my own doing. And soon, I will have lived longer than the only other person that mattered to me.”

You’re no longer a reed. You’re a moth. Huddling him for warmth, waiting to catch fire and burn. 

“I’m sorry…” 

You don’t actually want to say that, yet you say it anyway because it feels like the safest thing. Safer than trying to grasp at his point. Safer than focusing on the purposeful use of his language, that tiny and often overlooked adverb implying that there’s someone or there had been someone once who had been lucky enough to take up a place in his heart. 

You are sorry. You’re sorry about the sarlacc. You’re sorry about the burns. You’re sorry that his father has died and that he’s alone. You’re sorry for a lot that isn’t your fault, yet feels like your responsibility to fix. 

You’re sorry and he’s taking a step forward. 

Part of you hopes he won’t do anything, fearing that if by moving he’ll accelerate whatever is about to happen and make it go too fast. It’ll end before you want it to even start. For the moment, all you want is to remain on the periphery, to keep on towing that line between one outcome and the other in this small island of stillness; afloat as if on the muteness of a river at dusk, and it is all you can do to restrain yourself from beginning him to stay where he is - if only to keep your metaphorical boat hugged to the shore and well hidden. 

He doesn’t stop. You don’t tell him to. 

Silence inside. Outside, the wind gusts so harsh that it pushes through the cracks in the permacrete. His hands find your waist. You’re already shivering before he kisses you. 

He is delicate in his passion and you are slow to respond - not reluctant, but careful, as if by allowing yourself to fully indulge you’d bubble over with the things brimming inside you that you’d been desperately trying to squash. Your heart becomes a fist. The spaces where its fingers don’t quite touch its palm pockets that hold prayer. Its fingernails digging into the skin alight with bleeding and sorrowful longing. 

His affection and rhythm flows into your throat. 

It doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d have liked. 

You open your eyes, stare at him and try not to frown. “Why…” 

“You deserve a proper goodbye.” 

“But you aren’t…you aren’t leaving until tomorrow.” 

“Would it have been better if I had waited?” 

No. Maker, how badly you wish you could say yes. 

Boba kisses the top of your head. You close your eyes again. “Get some rest. We’ve got a dragon to kill.” 

By the time you’ve opened them again, he’s back in his room. 


End file.
